


Like All Good Fairytales (this one starts with once upon a time)

by amfiguree



Series: always, always, always [1]
Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 07:22:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amfiguree/pseuds/amfiguree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five lifetimes David and David would have fallen in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue: once upon a time

"You know I'm not going to go easy on you, right?" is the first thing I say, when I'm introduced to my interview subject.  
  
"I hope not," he quips, and laughs. We're in his hotel room (which is surprisingly pristine), and he's lounging in the chair across from me, clad in gray slacks and a dressy pink shirt. We make small talk as the photographer sets up the lights, and when I prompt him about the clothing choice, he laughs again and tells me real men don't shy away from a little color.  
  
It seems like a good time to introduce myself, and when he says, "I always thought I'd end up marrying a Natalie," I start to understand how he has every reporter he's ever met wrapped around his finger. Already, I hope I don't look as impressed as I feel.  
  
It's hard to believe the mellow guy folded in the armchair across me is an international rock and roll sensation. But that's David Cook for you through and through. Charming. Enigmatic. Candid. Smart.  
  
Gay.  
  
And, though he isn't revealing any names just yet, taken.  
  
"It's definitely serious," he says, with a grin, when prodded (repeatedly) about the gossip. "We're just, uh, we're in a good place right now, you know? I don't want to jinx it."  
  
My curiosity is piqued, as any good journalist's would be. He's been tight-lipped about his current romance ever since he let slip that he was dating in his interview with People Magazine last year.  
  
I ask how long he's been with his partner, and David raises an eyebrow. "There are steps to every relationship, and I don't think we're quite there yet," he says, slyly, and I laugh.  
  
One thing's clear: whatever the outcome, it's going to be an interesting afternoon.


	2. i. snow white fell in love with dopey

> > "I always say I'm looking forward to not looking back; I mean, I think everyday is a new adventure, and even if it isn't, it's going to be different from yesterday's."

  
  
For their one month anniversary - or, okay, the anniversary of the day _before_ their one month anniversary, because evidently falling asleep together on the couch while watching _The Notebook_ isn't enough to certify one's dating status ("You totally have to say it!" Archie protests, "Or it doesn't count!") - they go to this tiny, exclusive restaurant, and David blows an exorbitant amount of money making sure they get a private room so he doesn't have to worry about anyone calling the psych ward on him.  
  
"Oh my gosh," Archie says, when David comes out of the bedroom. "You're totally dressed up."  
  
Which - yeah, David is. He has one suit, and this is it.  
  
Archie's in his usual jeans and t-shirt, complete with messy bed head, and David grins. "I could change into something else?" he offers.  
  
"No!" Archie protests, too quickly. He flushes, and David's smile widens almost predatorily. "I mean. Um." David just stands there, and eventually, Archie repeats, slower, "No?" and looks up at David with painfully transparent hope on his face.   
  
David only just manages to refrain from kissing him.  
  
 _Suits,_ David thinks, and files it away for future reference, along with _his mouth_ , _his guitar_ and _Pad Thai_.   
  
"I guess I can stand looking like a preppy school boy for one night," he says, good-naturedly.   
  
"Um," Archie says, as he follows David out the door. "I - don't schools have, like, age limits or something?"  
  
  
  
"Table for one, sir?" the maître d' says, when they get to the restaurant. The question is even, but David gets the feeling he's been given the onceover, judged, and found lacking, which -- it would've bothered him, before, but he's gotten pretty used to strange looks in the past couple of months.  
  
"I have a reservation," he says, pleasantly, and cuts a glance to Archie, who's peering into the restaurant, eyes darting from the décor, to the patrons, to the food. "David Cook?"  
  
The maître d' checks the reservations list with a brief nod. David sees one eyebrow go up, then the other, but the man composes himself enough to smile and say, "Very good, sir. This way, please."  
  
"Oh my gosh, Cook," Archie whispers, clearly awed, and David glances surreptitiously over his shoulder at him as they weave past various tables, each populated with a handful of diners. "This must have been really expensive!"  
  
"Good thing I'm eating for one," David murmurs, out of the corner of his mouth. The maître d' turns to him, then, questioningly, and David clears his throat and adds, with a winning smile, "I'm, uh, I'm a little under the weather this evening."  
  
"Most unfortunate, sir."  
  
  
  
Once they're seated (and David gets another odd look for choosing to pull out his own chair, instead of taking the one the maître d' pulls out for him), David alternates between glaring at Archie - who's trying to stifle a smile - and nodding politely as the specials are read to them.  
  
David places his order, then, and waits for the waiter to leave before saying, dryly, "I can't take you anywhere."  
  
"Oh my gosh, it's totally not my fault!" Archie protests. He's waving his fingers gingerly over David's glass of water, like he can feel the condensation, and David tries not to stare. "I'm not even doing anything and you're all, like, whatever, laughing at me!"   
  
"I do that a lot, don't I?" David says, agreeably.  
  
"You are so not funny," Archie objects, and folds his arms.  
  
"What?" David demands, mock-offended. "I'll have you know my pirate joke is completely sail-able."  
  
"Oh my gosh," Archie says, horrified, and looks around, as if for something to throw at him. "You are _totally_ not telling me terrible pirate jokes all night."  
  
David cracks up at the expression on Archie's face just as the waiter comes back with his first course. "Uh," the waiter - Mark - says, as he sets David's plate on the table. He looks from David, to the seat across him, and back again, before adding slowly, "Is everything okay in here, sir?"  
  
Across the table, Archie says, "Um, this is so not my fault--"  
  
David starts laughing even harder. "Oh god," he gasps, as he presses his face into his hands. "Oh my god, I hate you."  
  
Mark blinks, and David sees him take a step back. "Uh," he says, uncertainly. "I'm sorry, sir? I, uh, I'll get someone else to serve you?" and flees from the room.  
  
Archie looks completely mortified. "Oh my gosh," he says, miserably. "Now you're totally going to have to tip him, like, twice."  
  
  
  
They end up tipping Mark triple of what they have to, but the food is amazing, and Archie spends the rest of the night alternating between watching David eat and trying not to talk when anyone else is around (which somehow results in David cracking up even _more_ , because it is physically impossible for him to listen to Archie cut himself off in the middle of saying, "and she was like, 'oh, I _really_ need you--'" without practically snorting water out his nose), so David calls it a win.  
  
They never run out of things to talk about, but they head home straight after David's done with his meal anyway (being out of the apartment too long tends to wear Archie out). David's working on getting the door open when Archie says, "Thanks for, um, for tonight."  
  
David looks up at that, and sees the way Archie's head is ducked, the way his mouth is curved, shyly, the way he's watching David from under his eyelashes. David feels his pulse skip a beat. He leans in, so close that there's barely an inch of space between them, so close that if he closes his eyes he can almost pretend--  
  
"You're welcome," he murmurs.   
  
Across the hallway, a clock starts to chime, and Archie smiles. "Happy anniversary, Cook," he murmurs, without stepping away. His eyes are so, so bright.   
  
For a second, David almost closes the distance. "Happy anniversary," he hears himself say, instead, just as quietly, and tries not to think about the need hiding under his skin. He hasn't been this patient (or celibate) since _high school_ , Jesus.  
  
Archie beams at him, then, before saying, "Let's watch a movie," and disappearing into the apartment. David turns, too fast, and slams his forehead against the door trying to follow Archie in. "Fuck," he swears, pressing a hand to his temple. "Motherfucking--"  
  
And then Archie pokes his head out into the corridor. "Why aren't you -- oh my gosh, _Cook_! Did you just walk into the door again?"  
  
Despite himself, David starts laughing.  
  
They don't have the most conventional relationship, but then hardly anything about Archie is conventional.  
  
  
  
Carly's waiting for him when he shows up at the parlor the next day. She smirks when she sees him. "Pay up, Castro," she says, as David drops into the seat behind the counter and starts looking through his appointments. His first is at 12.30pm - _Marybeth, purple orchid_.  
  
"What was it this time?" David asks, mildly, as Jason slaps a bill into Carly's outstretched hand.  
  
"I told him you'd be totally giddy when you came in today," Carly says, grinning.  
  
"That's the last time I'm putting money on you," Jason adds, leaning his elbows on the counter. "So I guess last night went well."  
  
"Better have been bloody amazing," Carly says. "It's the second time you've skipped drinks with us for this mystery man this month."  
  
"He's not a mystery," David corrects. "I've told you about him."  
  
Carly sighs, rolling her eyes as she reaches to cuff David upside the head. "You're going to need a better cover story to keep us from meeting him eventually, you know."  
  
"Yeah," Jason agrees. "The whole 'I'm dating a guy that only I can see' thing is getting pretty old, man."  
  
  
  
The thing is, they're right. Dating someone he can't have, can't touch, can't fucking _make out with_? It should be getting old. It's not like him and Archie have had the smoothest ride, either -- which, okay, understatement of the _century_ \-- because having someone walk through your solid bathroom door while you're buck naked in the shower isn't exactly David's idea of an ideal first meeting.  
  
Especially not since Archie's first reaction had been to baulk and yelp, "Oh my gosh!" and disappear the same way he'd come in.  
  
There'd been a lot of yelling that first night ("oh my gosh, you stole my apartment _and_ my name!"). And the second ("you just walked through a wall, man, you're clearly not supposed to be here!"). And - well, the first week had pretty much been nothing _but_ arguments, really, David insisting Archie "get the fuck out of my apartment!", and Archie protesting because, "I don't - but the apartment's _mine_ , where am I supposed to go?"  
  
They'd made some progress the week after, though, moved on to, "I don't know! Follow the goddamn light, maybe?" and, "But the only light is here?"  
  
It had only been after David had forked out an unhealthy amount of money for two exorcisms and a Taoist spirit-cleansing ritual and Archie _still_ hadn't disappeared that he began seriously reconsidering his strategy.  
  
As it turned out, Archie made pretty good company, once he'd accepted the idea that David wasn't going anywhere. He didn't eat, or sleep, or do much of anything except hover, really, and eventually David had said, "Well, my couch is pretty comfy," and Archie had said, "You mean _my_ couch," and they'd spent the rest of the evening watching the _Friends_ marathon showing on TV together.  
  
Gradually, it had gotten to a point where David would forget himself, sometimes, and end up buying two portions of Chinese take-out on his way home from the tat parlor, if he stayed late, and only realize what he'd done when Archie greeted him at the door with an, "oh my gosh, Cook, are you going to finish all of that by yourself?"  
  
David had become intimately familiar with having leftover takeout for breakfast.   
  
He still isn't sure when everything changed, when they suddenly became more, but he thinks it might've started the night he'd noticed the way Archie tended to linger around his guitar, the way he watched it when he thought David wasn't looking. Some nights, he reached out _just_ enough for his fingers to look like they were hitting the strings. "Hey," David had said, easily, one day, after he'd settled down to sketch a couple of tattoo designs for his appointments the next day, "Did you ever play?"  
  
"Oh, you mean, the - the guitar?" Archie had said. "Oh, no, I - I always wanted to learn, but--"  
  
"I'll show you," David had said, and waved it off when Archie protested, "No, it's - you're way busy, it's totally fine, I don't--" and they'd spent the rest of the evening noodling on David's guitar, singing along to Bon Jovi and Collective Soul and even a little Britney Spears. Archie hadn't known all the songs, but he'd hummed along obligingly anyway.   
  
And then it'd been two weeks later, four months since Archie's sudden appearance, when David had come home to dimmed lights and Archie serenading him with, " _'Cause everything that brought me here, well now it all seems so clear, baby you're the one that I've been dreaming of_ \--"  
  
"Uh," David had said, when he'd finished picking his jaw up off the ground.   
  
"Um," Archie had replied, with a small, uncertain, half-smile, and twisted his fingers behind his back. "Surprise?"  
  
David's mom had always said he fell too hard, too fast.  
  
  
  
They settle down to watch _Just Like Heaven_ that evening. It's not David's kind of movie, typically, but the parallels aren't lost on him, and Archie's been badgering him about renting it all weekend, ever since he'd heard something about it during an E! special on Reese Witherspoon.  
  
David spends most of the movie fidgeting uncomfortably - real and reel life should never mix, he decides - but Archie gets really into it, and David sees him eye the two cans of Budweiser on the table apprehensively after the possession scene at the bar. "Don't even think about it," David says, when Archie turns to look at him. "You never make a man walk away from his booze."  
  
"Um, but - you do kind of drink a lot?" Archie ventures.   
  
"I'm a tattooist," David reasons. "It's an image thing."  
  
Archie looks unconvinced.  
  
"Seriously," David adds, "Possession is a little creepy, even for us."  
  
"But I wouldn't _really_ be in you," Archie says, earnestly. "We'd be, like, in you together?"  
  
David chokes on his beer.   
  
The real downside to the whole ghostly apparition thing is that it limits the things David can do with (and to) Archie. The normal, everyday couple things, for example, like giving up on a movie in favor of throwing his boyfriend down on the couch and making out with him (among other things) after said boyfriend casually drops sexual innuendo (albeit unintentionally) into an otherwise mundane conversation.  
  
"I think I like this movie," Archie decides, as he turns back to the TV.  
  
"Minor," David chants, under his breath, "He's practically a minor," as if that would have been any kind of deterrent under any other circumstance.  
  
  
  
At the end of the movie, Archie's marching to a different tune completely. "Oh my gosh," he complains, flapping his hands as the credits roll. "That was totally stupid! How - she just _forgot_ him! That doesn't even make any sense!"   
  
"Arch," David laughs, "I don't think logic was a big factor in the premise here."   
  
Archie looks at him for a moment, long enough that David's mirth starts to fade, before he seems to shake himself. "Yes," he says, eventually, decidedly, to the floor. "Okay. Yes."  
  
"Archie," David says.  
  
Archie seems to struggle, for a second, and then he lifts his head. His mouth is set in a thin line, his eyes dark and inscrutable. "Cook," he says, "I wouldn't - if I, I know this is just a movie, but I - if I were her, I wouldn't--"  
  
"Hey," David interrupts. He lifts a hand, then stops, tries on a smile instead. "Hey, I know. David."  
  
"I wouldn't," Archie repeats, fiercely. His fists are clenched in his lap.  
  
"Okay," David says, and god, _god_ but he wants to touch him. He turns off the TV instead. "Okay."  
  
  
  
"Uh oh," Jason says, when David gets into the parlor the next day. "Rough night?" David shoots him a look, and Jason holds up his hands in mock surrender, mutters, "Oh- _kay_ ," and goes back to working on his design for his four o'clock.  
  
Archie hadn't been in the apartment when he'd woken up that morning. It's not entirely unusual, but after last night -- David scowls down at his desk and pulls out a rough sheet of paper.  
  
"What is that?" Carly asks, from behind him, and David startles, which gives her the opportunity to grab the page from him. David doesn't even realize it's not blank till Carly lifts it up. There's a doodle in the corner that catches his attention. It's a caricature of a ghost, doe-eyed and smiling, a toque sitting crookedly on its head.   
  
David suppresses a laugh.  
  
 _They'd sat up talking all night once, about everything and nothing, just curled up together on the couch, the room dark save the dim light from the streetlamps streaming in through the window, and at some point David had grabbed his pencil and penned a rough sketch of a cartoon ghost. "Do you think, um, it should have a hat," Archie had said. "Like, um, a chef's hat? The tall, white--"  
  
"A toque," David had supplied, and everything had gone into soft focus when Archie rolled his eyes and laughed and said, "Oh my gosh, I'm not even surprised you know that kind of stuff anymore."_  
  
"Carly," David says, then, "Do you have time to ink me this afternoon?"  
  
Carly stares at him, for a second, then at the doodle, clearly appalled. "Uh," she says. "That depends."   
  
  
  
It doesn't take long for David to realize that getting the tattoo on his wrist? Pretty fucking stupid. Also? Ugly. But Carly had insisted on turning the doodle into something that wouldn't completely ruin her reputation, and when she drew up an eye around it, David had shrugged and given in. It made sense, all things given, and he'd just wanted to get home, to say, _it's okay. Even if you forget, I won't. I see you._   
  
  
  
Archie doesn't come home all night.  
  
  
  
Five days later, Archie's still gone, and David goes back to work.  
  
"Jesus," Carly says, when he gets in. "What happened to you?"   
  
Nothing's changed. David had looked in the mirror that morning, seen the same face staring out at him. Everything in the house had been exactly where it should be; no extra clothes, or cutlery, or furniture. It'd been like Archie was never even there.  
  
"Family emergency," he says, shrugging.  
  
"Dave," Jason says, coming over to join them. "Are you sure you can hold a needle with that thing?"  
  
His hand's bandaged from where he put a hole in his wall the day before, left a mark so he could be sure of that, if nothing else.  
  
"I'm gonna try," he says, evenly.  
  
Jason and Carly exchange a look.  
  
  
  
David gets through the rest of the day without fucking up too badly - and the one tattoo he does ruin, he gives to Matt for free. He stays late to close up, and then goes out to get really, really shitfaced.   
  
  
  
The next day, Carly sends him home after he almost amputates one of their regulars.  
  
David doesn't protest too much. Even he can admit that nursing a hangover with a needle in your hand probably isn't the best idea.  
  
He goes out and gets himself a six-pack, anyway.  
  
  
  
When he gets home, _Just Like Heaven_ is sitting on the coffee table, right where he left it the day before everything fell apart. David stares at the cover for a second, then picks it up and hurls it out a window.  
  
He gets drunk, again, and spends the whole night not-hoping to be possessed.   
  
  
  
There's a thunderstorm on day thirteen - David's just getting used to that, the separation of the before and the after - and he's brooding, staring at his newly un-bandaged tattoo and wishing he could burn it off his skin, which is why it takes him a while to realize that someone's banging on the front door.  
  
David considers not answering it for a second, but the knocking grows even more insistent, and David finally hauls himself to his feet with a snarl and snaps, " _What_?" as he yanks the door open. And then he freezes.  
  
Because - it's _Archie_.   
  
He's completely drenched, and he looks exhausted, sallow and thin, his usual clothes mud-streaked and dirty. His expression is pinched, fingers twisting nervously behind his back as he leaks water onto the corridor.  
  
He's the most fucking beautiful thing David's ever seen.  
  
"You knocked," is the first thing David hears himself say.  
  
"Um," Archie says, raising his head awkwardly. "Yes. I'm - I can do that now."   
  
"Archie," David breathes, and fuck, it's like the last two weeks never even happened. He takes a shaky breath, and holds out a hand, close but not quite touching. "Jesus."  
  
"I'm real," Archie says, and presses his cheek into David's palm. He feels warm, and alive, and David strokes a thumb across his face, oh _god_ \--  
  
Archie's eyes flutter shut for a second. "I'm sorry," he says, on a rush, when he opens them again. "Cook, I'm so, _so_ sorry I left - I -- I woke up in the hospital and--"  
  
"It's okay," David says, because it doesn't matter anymore, none of it does, and Archie leans into his touch some more, and it's all - it's--  
  
"Oh my gosh," Archie says, and David blinks. He's looking at David's wrist, at the tattoo, mouth parted in surprise. "What - Cook?"  
  
"You wanted the hat," David says, with a lopsided grin.  
  
Archie stares at it some more, throat working, mouth moving, soundlessly, and when David reaches for him again, he chokes out, "I didn't forget."  
  
David's heart thuds painfully in his chest. "I didn't forget," Archie repeats, his eyes wet now. "Cook, I didn't, I promised, and I woke up and I knew, I _remembered_ , and I had to come--"  
  
"I know," David says, feeling his own throat tighten. "Archie."  
  
He steps forward, and Archie goes from pliant to defensive almost on autopilot. He shakes his head as he holds out his hand, saying, "Wait, no, I - I'm--" and gesturing at his clothes. And that - that's Archie, that's his boyfriend, standing in his doorway, not gone at all, real and warm and solid to the touch.  
  
It's like something unravels inside David, something _amazing_ , and--   
  
"I don't care," he says, roughly. He puts his hands on the back of Archie's neck, then, tugs him closer and whispers, "I don't fucking care."   
  
And then David kisses him, and it's like the world dissolves into heat and need and nothing else. _I see you,_ David thinks, hazily, blood burning as they stumble backwards into his - _their_ \- apartment. Archie clings to him, making soft, sweet noises against his mouth. _I see you._


	3. ii. cinderella realized that happily ever after takes work

> > "My philosophy on life is that nothing ever comes easy, you know? I mean, everyone has their rough days. I know I do. With my music, my career, or relationship-wise, romantic, friendship, all of that, it's the same principle. They all take work. That's just how I look at it."

  
  
David is so fucking over the starving artist thing.   
  
The truth of the matter is, there's nothing romantic about it. Yeah, sure, the first seven hours are exciting, and the first seven days are an adventure, but after seven months, there is nothing liberating about being evicted from your one-room apartment for failing to make rent.  
  
See, David? He'd lived the dream for the better part of seven _years_ before he'd been discovered, and he's pretty keen on never reliving that part of his life again, which is why, when his manager says, "Asian show, kiddo, we hit the road next month," he says, "no fucking way, are you fucking serious?"  
  
instead of, "Can you give me a couple of days to talk it over with my husband?"  
  
  
  
Archie isn't pleased.  
  
"What!" he protests, when David says as much. "Oh my gosh, what are you _talking_ about, I totally am!"  
  
David looks him over, critically, and rolls his eyes when Archie straightens from where he's been scratching behind Dublin's ears and attempts another smile. "You're trying," David says, not unkindly.  
  
Archie ducks his head and laughs, a little, cheeks coloring (and after all this time, the sight still makes David grin). "I'll, um, I'll try harder," he says, after a second, as he looks up at David, smiling faintly, earnestly. Then, blush still high on his cheeks, he slides into David's lap. Kisses him.  
  
"Hi," Archie says, when he pulls back, and David opens his eyes to a brilliant, blinding smile. "You're awesome. I am, like, totally pleased."   
  
David catches himself on the cusp of a smile. "I might have to test that theory," he says, wickedly, and drops his hand--  
  
Dublin whines, then, and Archie gasps, " _Cook_!" and then gasps some more when trying to roll off David just makes things worse.  
  
David laughs so hard he nearly topples off the couch, and he has to catch one of Archie's flailing hands in his own to steady them both.   
  
Archie's face is burning when he says, "oh my gosh, we've totally talked about - about not, um, not doing this stuff in front of Dublin! And - and not on the couch, either, because you know how hard it is to get it, like, cleaned up and stuff, and--"  
  
David strives to look contrite, then, even as his thumb strays absently over the back of Archie's hand, the plain, gold band on Archie's finger warming slowly under his skin.  
  
  
  
David's done a bunch of commercial work, recently, which is probably what landed him the chance to do the show, but his forte has always been still-life.   
  
He tried his hand at photojournalism in college, years ago, but he isn't built for it. His first instinct, when he sees someone in pain, has never been _click_.   
  
He's good at what he does, his innate instinct for aesthetic honed even sharper by years of experience, and he makes a decent living off of it.   
  
His personal collection, though, is completely different. They're made up mostly of portraits, Archie's included, but mostly of friends, of family, and there's nothing groundbreaking about any of them, nothing haunting or controversial.  
  
It's a simple theme: they're all smiling.  
  
  
  
David goes into the office to finalize his travel details on Monday.  
  
It doesn't hit him till he leaves, four hours later, that he's going to be gone for _ten weeks_.  
  
That's two and a half goddamn months.  
  
 _Fuck_.  
  
  
  
"I could cancel," David says, discretely pulling a couple of t-shirts out of his suitcase. "I mean, do I really have to go all the way to Malaysia to show my work? Uh, no. There are plenty of shows I can do here."  
  
"Um, whatever," Archie says, patiently, as he tucks another shirt in. "We have, like, three shows in Murray all year, Cook. You're totally going."  
  
"Maybe I can put it off for a couple of months," David suggests, taking the shirt out again. "Summer's coming up, we could plan the stops then."  
  
"Except all the galleries and stuff have already been booked, and--oh my gosh, Cook!" Archie objects, when he realizes that the luggage is still half empty and it's already a quarter past one. "Michael's going to be here to pick you up in, like, five _seconds_!"   
  
"More like thirty minutes," David corrects, hooking his chin over Archie's shoulder with a grin. He smells like oranges, hair still damp from the shower he just took, and David drops a quick kiss on the base of his neck.   
  
"Um, you are totally not allowed to distract me right now," Archie says, warningly. Dublin pads into the room, then, slinks around David's ankle, and Archie's after that, before letting out a little bark.   
  
David looks up at Archie hopefully. "Dublin disagrees."  
  
"He's just hungry," Archie says, and laughs when Dublin starts licking David's calf. "If I feed him, will you finish packing up?"  
  
"Uh," David says, as he bends down to ruffle Dublin's fur.  
  
Archie sighs and goes back to folding.  
  
"Thanks, honey," David adds, grinning as he gives Archie a wet, smacking kiss on the cheek, before scooping Dublin up and heading for the door. "Now who's up for some puppy power?"  
  
"I am totally going to forget to pack your favorite cap!" Archie calls, after him.   
  
David snorts derisively, and a moment later one of his shirts hits him squarely in the back of his head.   
  
"Wife beater!" David calls, over his shoulder, and barely manages to avoid being hit by a pair of well-aimed socks.  
  
Dublin yips and licks his nose once Archie's out of earshot, and David's smile softens as he scratches between Dublin's ears. "I'm gonna miss you too," he murmurs, as he casts a glance back towards the bedroom. "You boys better take care of each other till I'm back to do it for you."  
  
  
  
Michael shows up twenty-eight minutes later, right on time. "Let's get going, mate!" he calls from the car, sticking his head out of the window, and David feels a shot of perverse pleasure at the way Carly leans over the gearbox to yank him back inside. By the ear.   
  
Archie follows him out into their driveway, closing the wire netting they'd installed outside the door to keep Dublin inside. He attempts another smile as David turns around to look at him.  
  
"Hey," David says, and the smile falters. He nudges Archie's arm. "So I better see straight As on that report card when I get back. You're gonna have a lot of studying to do."  
  
"Yes," Archie nods, resolutely. "Totally. Studying. Yay."  
  
"C'mere," David laughs, and wraps a hand around the back of Archie's neck, tugs him all the way in and kisses him, warm and slow and thorough. Dublin whines when they break apart, and Archie's eyes are too-bright, like a fist around David's heart. David crooks his fingers at Dublin in a small wave, then squeezes the back of Archie's neck, gently, and whispers, "Be back before you know it."  
  
Archie nods again, and David turns towards the car.   
  
Carly gives him a quick hug as she gets out of the passenger seat.   
  
"Keep an eye on them for me?" he says, quietly, and knows they're in good hands when she promises to do just that.   
  
He tosses his luggage into the backseat, then, swiping a quick hand over his face as he shuts the door.  
  
"I saw that," Archie calls over.  
  
David grins as slides into the passenger seat. "Ten weeks!" he shouts back, as Michael guns the engine. Carly slips an arm around Archie's shoulders, and David feels his smile waver, for a second. "Plenty of time to figure out how this Twitter thing works!"  
  
Archie laughs, then, face split in a smile that makes David wish he had his camera set up. He waves till they're out of the driveway, the house, till they're down the street and he can't hear Dublin's erratic barking anymore.  
  
"Jesus, Dave," Michael says, as David slumps back in his seat. "You're fuckin' whipped."  
  
"Hey," David says, "So remember the time you offered to sell me your kidney because Carly wanted one of Archie's--"  
  
Michael pointedly turns the radio up.  
  
  
  
The flight to LA is two hours long, and David spends it listening to Michelle give him the detailed schedule breakdown. He wonders if Archie's taken Dublin to the park, and his hand keeps drifting back to his pocket, where he's tucked his phone, and the _fly safe,_ from Archie stored in it.  
  
He spends the first of his five hour layover in Korea on his laptop, trying to set up a twitter account. Then he gets distracted by the architecture of the airport, and he gets so caught up waiting for the perfect moment when the sun hits the side of the terminal that it's time to board the plane to Hong Kong before he finishes verifying the account.   
  
_apparently twitter is beyond my intellectual capabilities,_ he sends to Archie, as they stand in line for immigration, Michelle still trying to drill their post-flight plans into him.  
  
 _Did you get any good shots? :)_ Archie texts back.  
  
David grins into his passport, and Michelle says, "You're not listening to me at all, are you?"  
  
"Nope," David says, unrepentantly.  
  
"I hate you both," she sighs. "We'll talk more on the plane. Just tell the boy toy I promise not to break you."  
  
 _michelle says she promises not to break me while we're away,_ David sends, obligingly, _and you know I'd never settle for less than perfect._  
  
 _Michael says you should have married him, then,_ Archie replies, and David nearly gets himself arrested when he bursts out laughing in the custom officer's face.   
  
  
  
  


  
  
They arrive in Hong Kong in the late afternoon, and, once David realizes that pretty much everyone is fluent in English, he insists they take the bus down to the hotel, snapping pictures out of the window the entire way.   
  
Hong Kong is -- different. It's a mish-mash of culture, east meets west, old and new, quaint but progressing, this flurry of color, of movement, of _life_.   
  
His finger barely leaves the shutter.  
  
  
  
That's when Twitter becomes a lifesaver.  
  
  
  
 _22:50_ @_DJArchie what's for breakfast, snookums?  
 _22:52_ @_mrsarchie Oh my gosh, Cook! Haha! Your username! I just laughed at the computer. Haha.  
 _22:52_ @_mrsarchie Um also we had pancakes and ice cream. But Carly says that's not real food. Lol.  
 _22:53_ @_DJArchie you are so predictable.  
 _22:54_ @_mrsarchie You totally had a latte at Starbucks!  
 _22:55_ @_DJArchie maybe they don't have starbucks in hong kong.  
 _22:55_ @_DJArchie okay, no, they totally do. it's amazing here. we have to come back one day.   
_22:56_ @_mrsarchie I'm glad you're having a good time, haha! What did you do today?  
 _22:56_ @_DJArchie took a bunch of photos. i think you'll like them. hk is weird! check this out: <http://twitpic.com/6h861>  
_22:58_ @_mrsarchie That's unfortunate, lol.   
_23:00_ @_DJArchie that's what it's like everywhere here. kinda crazy. in a good way!  
 _23:01_ @_DJArchie and i wheedled michelle into going to see the harbor after dinner. wish you could've seen it with me. <http://twitpic.com/6h8bp>  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
_00:22_ @_DJArchie dude, japan is insane. they have pink flowers, arch. PINK.  
 _00:22_ @_mrsarchie Haha! Aren't those called cherry blossoms?  
 _00:24_ @_DJArchie ...what else do you know about the asian culture that you're not telling me?   
_00:25_ @_mrsarchie Oh my gosh, nothing! They just pop up in Daniel's anime stuff a lot.  
 _00:26_ @_DJArchie okay, but i'll bet they don't show the tokyo dome a lot! <http://twitpic.com/6h8m3>  
_00:29_ @_mrsarchie Cook! That's awesome! Is this near your gallery or something?   
_00:30_ @_DJArchie ...sort of? like a three hour drive sort of?   
_00:30_ @_mrsarchie !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!   
_00:30_ @_DJArchie i always make my rounds in the evenings!  
 _00:30_ @_DJArchie okay, almost always.  
 _00:31_ @_mrsarchie Cook, you're supposed to be promoting your work, lol.  
 _00:32_ @_DJArchie i know, but this is way more fun.  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
_10:17_ @_DJArchie okay, beijing is amazing. like, dirt cheap amazing.  
 _10:18_ @_mrsarchie Haha! That's what you said about Hong Kong!  
 _10:19_ @_DJArchie i had no idea what i was talking about in hong kong.  
 _10:19_ @_mrsarchie Lol, are you going to actually do work today?  
 _10:21_ @_DJArchie maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaybe. are you?  
 _10:22_ @_mrsarchie Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees, haha. :)  
 _21:52_ @_DJArchie holy shit i made it all the way up the great wall. my legs are killing me.  
 _22:31_ @_mrsarchie Hahaha! That was, um, ambitious?   
_22:33_ @_DJArchie about to pass out, but i wanted to share the view first. it was breathtaking. <http://twitpic.com/6h8z3>   
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
_11:12_ @_DJArchie just got to the hotel. arch, the people here are unbelievably friendly.  
 _11:13_ @_mrsarchie Aw, that's good! Maybe you should start going to the galleries then, haha!   
_11:15_ @_DJArchie i just might. they have the most fantastic looking buses here! <http://twitpic.com/6h93z> <http://twitpic.com/6h9a9>  
_11:18_ @_mrsarchie Disney! Haha! And does the green one say 'The Great Fighter'? Lol!  
 _01:52_ @_DJArchie spent the day basking in the filipino culture. the food is pretty good, and the local music scene is fantastic.  
 _01:53_ @_DJArchie oh, and the shopping is insane. carly would love it.  
 _01:54_ @_mrsarchie Haha, what was the best part?  
 _01:55_ @_DJArchie this requires some thought.  
 _02:00_ @_DJArchie we watched the sunset at the famous manila bay.  
 _02:00_ @_DJArchie wished you were there to see it with me.  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
_14:10_ @_DJArchie i've been on all the rides in sunway lagoon twice.   
_14:11_ @_DJArchie i've eaten most of the street food.  
 _14:11_ @_DJArchie i've gotten food poisoning.  
 _14:12_ @_DJArchie i've run out of shopping malls.  
 _14:13_ @_DJArchie i am totally losing my mind!  
 _03:44_ @_mrsarchie Sorry you had a bad day. Dub wanted to say hi to cheer you up! Haha! :) <http://twitpic.com/6ha96>  
_09:00_ @_DJArchie hey, boy. <http://twitpic.com/6ha5l>  
_09:11_ @_mrsarchie Oh my gosh!!!!!! Cook!!!!! Dub just destroyed all the cushions!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
_22:52_ @_DJArchie okay, i know i said that singapore was pretty much just like malaysia all over again, except with a whole heck of a lot more food...  
 _22:52_ @_DJArchie BUT i had the WEIRDEST FRUIT EVER TODAY!!!  
 _22:53_ @_DJArchie check out the spikes on that thing! and these guys were cracking them open with their bare hands! <http://twitpic.com/6hao7>  
_22:54_ @_mrsarchie Oh my gosh, what IS that??  
 _22:55_ @_DJArchie they call it durian. it smells awful but it tastes unbelievable. <http://twitpic.com/6har7>  
_22:56_ @_DJArchie they even do this thing where they fill the empty shells with water for you to wash your hands in to get rid of the smell.  
 _22:57_ @_mrsarchie The durian smell?  
 _22:58_ @_DJArchie arch, i wouldn't kiss me right now. it's pretty nasty.  
 _23:00_ @_mrsarchie Um. Please don't bring that home?  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
_19:55_ @_DJArchie the floating market is INSANE. the moa has nothing on asia.  
 _19:56_ @_mrsarchie Haha! Did you spend all day taking photos again?  
 _19:58_ @_DJArchie that and eating. we are definitely coming back here for the pad thai. you'll love it.  
 _19:59_ @_mrsarchie Oh my gosh! You had pad thai!!!!!!  
 _20:00_ @_DJArchie they had STREETS full of it! <http://twitpic.com/6hb04> and i think their tom yam scorched all my taste buds.  
 _20:02_ @_mrsarchie Oh my gosh, that looks totally amazing.  
 _20:03_ @_DJArchie tasted just as good. i'm gonna try to snag a recipe for you.  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
_20:06_ @_DJArchie turns out the indonesians make the best chicken in the world. dub would be going nuts.  
 _20:06_ @_mrsarchie Haha, he'd love that. I guess you like it there?  
 _20:16_ @_mrsarchie Cook?  
 _20:18_ @_DJArchie we, uh, we went to the slums today: <http://twitpic.com/6hb8h>  
_20:18_ @_DJArchie the people here blow my mind, arch. they have so little, and they're the happiest people i've met.   
_20:18_ @_DJArchie i wish i was home.  
 _20:20_ @_mrsarchie We wish you were here too. It's too quiet without you.  
 _20:21_ @_DJArchie counting down the days, arch.  
  
  
  
The homesickness doesn't really set in till the last week of the show. David spends most of his time in Jakarta antsy and nervous, thankful to be there, but even more eager to be gone. He sells two dozen photos, discusses a couple of contracts, but his mind is already back in Utah. Each day drags on longer than the last.   
  
The thing is, seeing Asia has been on David's to-do list ever since he can remember.  
  
Figures it takes flying halfway across the globe to figure out he left his entire world back where he started.  
  
  
  
Carly texts him the morning he's due home, just as he wakes up: _Just checked in on your boys tonight, time to get your ass back here._ There's a photo attached: Archie, fast asleep on the rug by the fireplace, curled around Dublin, face pressed into his fur.  
  
David spends the next 21 hours trying to stop grinning like a complete fool.  
  
  
  
 _21:34_ @_DJArchie just got off the plane. i'm coming home to you.


	4. iii. peter pan grew up

> "There's this quote that I really love from The Sandman. It goes 'You build up this whole armor, for years, so nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life. You give them a piece of you. They don't ask for it. They do something dumb one day like kiss you, or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore.' I think, you know, I think that sums up my life story, pretty much."

  
  
It took David all of five months to figure out that Trina is a master manipulator.  
  
Problem is, it's now five years later, and most other people? Still don't seem to realize that.  
  
"We're talking world class skill, Mom," David says, his cell phone wedged firmly between his ear and his shoulder as he begins to fill the kitchen sink with water. "I mean, emotional bribery, tearful puppy-dog eyes, the whole nine yards. I don't even know where she learns half this stuff. Maybe it's too much TV."  
  
"Sesame Street isn't teaching her anything but the alphabet," his mom says, with a sigh. "You, on the other hand..."  
  
"What?" David demands, not at all defensively. He picks up a plate and begins scrubbing it, hard (fuck, he's definitely adding tuna casserole to his growing list of 'things that are only good ideas on paper'). "I don't - maybe it's the Powerpuff Girls. The monkey can't be a good influence."  
  
His mom laughs, and David feels the tension in his shoulders start to melt. "I'm sure that's what your brother used to say about you."  
  
"I'm pretty sure I was more an Alvin and the Chipmunks kind of guy," David says, as he drops another plate into the sink. Outside, the sun is shining, cutting out squares of light in the kitchen. Trina's still on the garden swing where David left her, combing her (tiny, tiny) fingers through Andie's mane. She waves when she catches David's eye, her grin so wide and infectious David feels his lips curl upwards in reply. He raises a soapy hand and wiggles his fingers, ignoring the foam that settles in his hair. His heart gives a little tug when she tips her head back and laughs. "God, she's getting big."  
  
"Happens faster than you think," his mom says. She sounds almost wistful. "Soon, she'll be interested in boys, and dating, and--"  
  
"Yeah," David says. "Not happening. I've still got that cleaver Andrew gave me for Christmas last year stashed somewhere in my bedroom."  
  
His mom laughs again, a quiet sound in his ear. "You know that would be completely unnecessary if you'd just come down for a visit so her uncle could teach her some self-defense."  
  
David rolls his eyes good-naturedly as he drops a spoon into the sink. "Don't start."  
  
"I'm just saying," his mom says, patiently. "It would be nice to see my growing granddaughter for myself. All this emailing and, what do you call it, webcamming? Isn't the same thing."  
  
"Mom," David huffs, on a weary laugh. "We've been through this. Tulsa's good for me right now. Business is finally picking up - I've only been in town a week and I'm already talking to a couple of people about designing their company logos, and T's starting kindergarten next week, things are really starting to work out for us here. Plus I've already promised to be back for Thanksgiving, so will you stop trying to lure us back?"  
  
"About that," his mom replies, a lilt of a question in her voice. "Andrew says T's going to be done by mid-November."  
  
Inwardly, David groans. _Thanks a lot, Drew._ "Uh, yeah," David says, as casually as he can. "I was thinking about taking T down to Disneyworld for a couple of days before we head home."  
  
"Really?" his mom asks. "What happened to not letting corporate America scam you out of your money?" David can picture her almost exactly, phone cord wrapped around her wrist, her mouth quirked in a smile and sunlight dancing in her eyes. He glances out the window again, seeing her face in his baby girl's. When he starts paying attention again, his mom is saying, "She's got you wrapped around her finger hasn't she? She says jump--"  
  
"I say, 'is twelve feet high enough?'," David agrees, nodding even though she can't see him. "It's just like it was with her mother. Why am I surprised that my daughter is turning out to be a natural at exploitation again? It's obviously in her genes."  
  
"Honey," his mom sighs. "It's not genes. Now I love my granddaughter, and Disneyworld once a year is fine, but if you keep letting her get away with things --"  
  
"I know," David says, interrupting her. "It's, uh, I'm sure it's just a phase. You know how she..."  
  
And that's when he spots his five-year-old daughter trying to climb to the top of the garden swing poles. David drops the cutlery - and his phone, _fuck_ \- into the sink in his scramble for the kitchen door. "T!" he yells. "Trina! Trina Evangeline Cook, get down from there! You are in so much trouble, young lady!"  
  
  
  
His baby girl scrapes both her knees before David can get her down. She hides her face in his neck while he gets the first aid kit out and cleans her wounds, her small fists bunched in the fabric of his shirt, his shoulder muffling the tiny hiccups in her breathing.  
  
"Hey," David murmurs, as he presses a kiss into her hair, smoothes an errant strand back from her forehead. "Hey, I got you. You're okay, honey. You're okay."  
  
But it's not okay. This is _not_ okay. The garden swing is old, already rusting with age, and Trina could have fallen off, or pulled the whole damned heap of metal down, or broken an arm, a rib, her _spine_. She might have _impaled_ herself on a pole, Jesus fucking Christ, it is so far from the realm of okay that David feels sick with the relief.  
  
They're going to need to sit down and have a real talk.  
  
  
  
Which is why, later, (after she's wheedled him into four Bratz band aids and getting a scoop of ice cream) David hoists Trina onto the kitchen counter and runs his knuckles gently over her knees as he says, seriously, "T, do you have any idea how dangerous that was?" Which, fuck, he never thought he'd hear himself like this, like his mom. "We've discussed this, remember? Unless it's the monkey bars, I want your feet planted on the ground."  
  
Trina turns on him with wide, guileless eyes. "I'm sorry, Daddy," she says. "Andie just wanted to see the squirrels."  
  
And goddammit, David finds himself torn between laughing and chucking the fucking plush toy out the window. "Well, the next time Andie wants to see the squirrels, we're going to the zoo," he ends up saying, instead. Trina giggles and shrieks when he ruffles her hair and sweeps her into his arms so he can carry her to her bedroom.  
  
His mom's right: he's totally fucked.  
  
  
  
David's in the middle of a video conference call with a couple of potentially huge clients early Monday morning when his cell phone blinks to life. He scowls down at it for a moment, hoping that whoever's on the other end of the line will telepathically receive his 'no phone calls during business meetings' signal. But the caller is persistent, and David finally says to his laptop, "Just give me one moment," with a smile, and picks up. "Hello?"  
  
"Um, hi. I'm calling from Learning at Judy's? Is this Mr. Cook?"  
  
David's heart sinks almost immediately, and he raises an apologetic hand at his clients before swiveling around in his chair, pushing away from his computer so they won't be able to see the worry on his face. All things considered, he really shouldn't be surprised to be getting a call from Trina's school. Barely two hours after he dropped her off. On her first day.  
  
"Hi, yeah," he says. "It's David Cook. Is my daughter all right? Did something happen in school?"  
  
"Oh, no, nothing - she's fine!" the voice says, quickly, and David's pulse goes from frantic to simply anxious. "She's, um, there's just been a little, um. She sort of threw her horse--"  
  
"Andie!" David hears Trina say, in the background, and he catches his mouth twitching despite himself. This cannot be good.  
  
"Andie," the voice corrects, patiently. "At one of her classmates--"  
  
"Oh my god," David groans. He puts his head between his knees for a second. "Oh my god, please tell me there weren't any concussions involved."  
  
"Oh, no," the voice says, quickly. "No, nothing like that. Just - maybe some bruising? And, um, maybe some... hearing trouble? But, like, I'm sure he'll be totally fine after a few days."  
  
David sighs, resigned. "She's going to grow up to be a menace to society, isn't she?"  
  
There's a warm laugh on the other end of the line, and David catches himself smiling; for a moment things don't seem entirely dire. "I wouldn't worry too much about it. Lots of kids act up their first day of school. And I think Greg maybe deserved to have Andie thrown at him anyway? He said some nasty things that..." There's a pause, and then a hurried, "Or, um, totally not. Totally. Um. Violence is wrong? I - children should never throw things at other children."  
  
"No argument there," David mutters, good humor disappearing as he scrubs the back of his hand over his mouth. "Listen, I'm sorry about the whole mess. I'm definitely giving her a time-out when she gets home. What do I, uh - do I need to come pick her up or something?"  
  
"Oh," the voice says. "Oh, no, no, that's fine. We'll figure something out. I mean, I wouldn't want her to - there's a lot of stuff for her to learn today. About, um, about numbers and things."  
  
"Oh, yeah," David says, with a little laugh. "Numbers. Awesome. T can't get enough of them."  
  
"I - it'll be fun," the voice replies, so earnestly that David starts to feel a little guilty for laughing. "Really, Trina probably just doesn't understand how totally great school can be! I don't think she'll want to miss out on all of this."  
  
David hears a polite little cough from his laptop, and he winces. "No, uh, you're probably right. This is going to be great. So, hey, man, thanks for calling and letting me know, but I should probably--"  
  
"Right, yes. I, um - I think Trina wants to talk to you, though? I don't - she's waving her hands at me and pointing at my phone."  
  
"Oh," David says, flinching at the next less-than-patient cough. He struggles with himself for a second, but then - like always - Trina wins. "Yeah, sure, put her on."  
  
In two seconds, David earns himself an earful of shrieking five-year-old. "Daddy! Daddy! Guess what? School is awesome, I love it, I want to come back every day!"  
  
"Hey T," David murmurs, "That's great, honey. Just - give me a second, okay? Just one second."  
  
And then David puts his hand over the mouthpiece of the receiver and turns around to tell _Bill fucking Gates_ that he's going to have to re-schedule their meeting for later.  
  
  
  
He doesn't clinch the deal. Big surprise.  
  
David sighs.  
  
Story of his life.  
  
And then Trina bounds into the room, Andie in tow, and drops herself right in his lap. "Daddy!" she beams, "Guess what I learned in school today?"  
  
David puts his hands on her hips, steadying her. Her cheeks are red, almost as red as her hair, which has obviously been tugged into disarray by the wind. She looks more and more like Amy every day. "Hmm, did you learn how to bake chocolate chip cookies?"  
  
"Nooooooo!" Trina giggles, and bounces Andie off of his chest (which, yeah, he should really work on getting her to stop doing that).  
  
"Then you learned how to play the xylophone?"  
  
"No!"  
  
"No?" David looks genuinely appalled. Then he mouths a silent, "oh!" and smacks his forehead. "You were totally learning how to ride elephants, weren't you?"  
  
"No!" Trina repeats, eyes sparkling as she chews on a lock of her hair. "We learned the colors of the rainbow!"  
  
David pulls a face as he tugs her hair out of her mouth. "The colors of the rainbow? Wow. You wanna tell me what those are?"  
  
T recites them easily, the colors rolling off her tongue like butter. "Mr. Archie says I'm doing really well," Trina adds, when she's done, like knowing the seven goddamn colors of the rainbow isn't enough to make David's chest _swell_.  
  
"Mr. Archie?" David says, instead. "Is that who called me this morning?"  
  
"Uh huh," Trina nods. "He's really nice, Daddy."  
  
"Yeah," David agrees, rubbing a thumb idly over the inside of her calf. "Yeah, I could tell."  
  
His baby girl grins up at him, her smile so quick and bright it's like a flashbulb going off, and David says, wanting to keep it there, "So hey, the colors of the rainbow, that's pretty impressive. I mean, _I_ never learned that in school. I guess that makes make me pretty silly, huh?"  
  
"Yeah," T says, and then, when David pretends to growl, shrieks, "Wait! No tickling, Daddy! No!"  
  
She squirms in his hold, squealing with laughter as David pokes her ribs, her feet, one arm still fastened securely around her to keep her in place, until she's wheezing into his t-shirt from where she's mashed up against him. "Now who's the silly one?" he asks, gathering her up again.  
  
"But you still don't know the colors!" Trina protests, as she catches her breath and looks up at him, and David has to concede the point.  
  
"Looks like I'm gonna be silly forever," he sighs, as he rests their foreheads gently together.  
  
"No you won't," T says, sincerely. "I'll teach you, Daddy. It's really easy."  
  
David softens as she tucks her face into the crook of his neck. He feels her puts a tiny, tiny hand over his chest, then, feels her fingers curl into a loose fist.  
  
In the grand scheme of things, David thinks, he'd pass up a million Bill Gates, if it meant this is where he'd end up.  
  
"It's a date," he murmurs, and threads a hand through his baby's hair.  
  
His heart is exactly where it belongs.  
  
  
  
Surprisingly, Archie - who, after two weeks, becomes Trina's "most favoritest teacher in the world, ever, ever, ever!" - doesn't stop calling. (David wonders if all kindergarten teachers are this good about keeping their students' parents updated.) Thankfully, the calls are usually about small things, little altercations: yelling at Greg, hiding in the bathroom for an hour after Greg splashes paint all over her dress, throwing Andie at Greg again after he tears her homework up.  
  
Each time, Archie says, "I think she's getting better, though? She's really sweet to everyone else. No, don't - don't worry about picking her up. Um, unless you want to? I - oh, no, I totally agree, Greg was out of line, but I really can't, um, we're kind of not allowed to let parents start hitting other people's kids. Sorry?"  
  
  
  
His mom likes to say that he doesn't trust anyone with T but himself, but David's inclined to disagree. He trusts people fine, he just knows he can do a better job. It's different with Archie, though. And it's not just that he's the best kindergarten teacher in the world (which is certifiable by David and Trina both). It's comfortable with him.  
  
So, when David can't get out of a meeting one afternoon, he leaves Archie a message letting him know that he's going to be twenty minutes late, and can he please keep an eye on T till David can come get her?  
  
He gets to the school half an hour later, and Trina storms into the car before he can even park, her lips pulled in a tight, thin line. She barely even acknowledges him, except to say, " _Drive now_."  
  
"Oh-kay," David mutters. He has to _text_ Archie a thank you.  
  
T's silent treatment lasts the entire drive back, and she goes to bed without any dinner, and without meeting David's eyes once all night.  
  
David sits at the dinner table alone, pushing his peas around his plate. This is like the beginning all over again, the first couple of years after Amy--  
  
The nightmares always woke him the same way: drenched in sweat, his heart fluttering his chest, his baby girl's name on his lips. Sometimes her mother's. He'd stumble down the hallway, breath catching, till his bare fingers trailed cold against the concrete wall outside Trina's room. He'd stand in her doorway, sometimes for hours, watching the rise and fall of the covers, counting every steady, sleepy heartbeat. Then, when he started to sway on his feet, he'd crawl into bed with her, curl up around her tiny, tiny body, wrap an arm around her and pull her close.  
  
She's his to protect.  
  
His to lose.  
  
David finds her in bed, blankets pulled up to her chin. The mattress dips under his weight, and he settles beside her, gently. His baby girl is stiff in his arms. "Hey," he says, quietly. "T."  
  
It takes a moment, but then she relents, turning to him and burrowing her face in his chest. "You promised, Daddy," she whispers. He doesn't need to look at her to know she's been crying, and his gut clenches. "You promised you were gonna be there."  
  
"I know, baby," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her temple to hide the ache he can feel hiding behind his lips. "I'm sorry. I'm here now."  
  
T sniffles a little. David doesn't comment when she rubs her nose discreetly over his shirt. "Mr. Archie isn't you, okay?" she says, plaintively.  
  
"Okay," David says, and squeezes her hand. "But he's pretty awesome, right?"  
  
T chews on her lower lip for a moment - so much like her mother it makes David smile - and then nods a little. "Yeah. He's pretty awesome."  
  
  
  
The next time Archie rings David up, his first words are, "So, um, she'll probably grow out of it eventually, but it would be a good idea to never do that again?"  
  
David finds himself laughing in reply, the apology he'd been planning stuck in his throat. "Yeah," he agrees, as he swipes a hand over his eyes. "Yeah, that's probably a good idea."  
  
  
  
The incident doesn't deter Archie from calling again, and every time, David picks up. It gets to the point where David finds himself looking forward to talking to Archie, to human contact outside of his daughter and work. Sometimes the calls come after office-hours. Sometimes they don't even come from the school. Sometimes, they don't even talk about Trina.  
  
"I mean, it's not like I haven't been looking," David points out one night, after he's put Trina to bed. "It's not like I've ever thought I'd stay in mourning forever, you know? That's not what Amy wanted. It's just - being a single dad is a full time job, and dating is hard enough as it is, I don't even know what it's going to be like juggling that and work _and_ T."  
  
"Oh," Archie says, and David can practically hear him nodding over the phone. "Yes. I totally understand."  
  
David smiles; the words are oddly comforting. "Really?"  
  
"Um," Archie says, sounding vaguely guilty. "I - no. Not - not really. But, um, that must really suck." There's a pause, and Archie sounds a little panicked when he adds, belatedly, "I mean, not the working part. Or the single dad part! T is awesome, she's - I would totally fall in love with her if, um, I - wait, no, that's inappropriate, I - um. Dating is totally overrated anyway! Totally, totally overrated. Not - not that I would know, I guess, since I've dated no one, ever, and I don't even think I'm, like, picky or whatever, I just -- oh my gosh, I can't believe I'm telling you all this! This is totally embarrassing--"  
  
David catches himself just before he starts laughing, and promptly dissolves into a coughing fit.  
  
"Um," Archie says uncertainly, "Cook? Oh my gosh, you're - stop laughing at me!"  
  
"Jesus, Archie," David says, in between his wheezing. "And I thought _I_ was on a dry spell--"  
  
"I am totally hanging up now," Archie huffs.  
  
"No, wait!" David says. "Wait, Arch." He makes a valiant effort to sound like he's breathing normally. "I'm shutting up now, I swear."  
  
They talk for five whole hours that night, and David falls asleep to the sound of Archie breathing slow and steady in his ear.  
  
  
  
He doesn't think much of it until the next time he and Andrew have their routine biweekly phone call. Five minutes into their conversation about the Mets, his brother says, "Dude. Are you seeing someone?"  
  
"What?" David demands, completely thrown. "Where the hell are you getting this?"  
  
"You sound fucking giddy, man," Andrew crows. "Don't hold out on me! You totally are, aren't you? Jesus, wait till I text Mom about this."  
  
"Andrew!" David barks. "Andrew, don't you fucking--"  
  
Andrew hangs up.  
  
David swears. It - dammit, it doesn't make him look forward to speaking to Archie any less.  
  
  
  
That's probably the reason Archie's next call catches him completely off-guard. David isn't even thinking as he takes it, and he barely even pauses his typing of a business contract as he balances his cell between his ear and his shoulder. "Hey, Archie, what did she do this time?"  
  
"Um," Archie says. His tone is enough to make David sit up, and push away from his computer. "Cook, you're totally not allowed to freak out, okay? Because it's not, um, it's not a big deal, and I totally have things under control. T was just on the swings, and Greg pushed her a little too hard, so... Cook? Cook? David? Hello?"  
  
  
  
David used to think it was weird, the way other parents always seemed to be able to pick their kids out of a crowd. He doesn't think that now. He feels like a heat-seeking missile, hot and intent and focused as he half-runs past the school gate. His heart is banging frantically at his ribcage, like it wants to be let out, like it knows something's wrong with its other half--  
  
And then he sees her, like a lone spot of color in a sea of washed-out gray. She's sitting on a bench along the wall, at the far end of the corridor, eyes on the floor, hands fisted in her shorts. "T?" David calls.  
  
Her head darts up at the sound of his voice. Her face lights up. "Daddy!" she says, and then she's right there, jumping for him, her arms outstretched. David catches her (always, _always_ catches her) and feels her fold into him as he presses his face into her hair and breathes her in. She's fine.  
  
She's okay.  
  
"Hey kiddo," he murmurs, after a minute, like he didn't just break every traffic law in the state to get to her. "How about let's never do that again, huh?"  
  
"She's fine now," someone says. "We totally patched her up. Right, Trina?"  
  
David feels Trina nod against his chest, and he looks up, surprised. He'd recognize that voice anywhere. "Archie?" The sight of the boy - _man_ \- in front of him catches him the way fatherhood did: both of them nothing like he'd expected. Archie's clad in an oversized, red checkered shirt, and he looks all of seventeen. "Wow," David adds, before he can stop himself.  
  
Archie ducks his head with a laugh, rubbing an awkward hand over the back of his neck. And - Jesus, if David hadn't been sure of Archie's identity before, that would've sealed the deal. David suddenly wishes he was dressed in something other than jeans and his rattiest Zeppelin t-shirt. "Um," Archie says, eventually, and waves the remnants of a Mickey Mouse band-aid awkwardly at David. "It was just a little scratch. There's totally nothing to be worried about."  
  
"Yeah," David says. "I, uh. Tend to be a little overprotective." Trina giggles, and David blows a soft raspberry against her neck. "Quiet, you."  
  
Archie nods, a little. "Yeah," he says. "It was kind of hard to miss. I figured I'd, um, wait it out with her till you got here. In case I - in case she needed anything."  
  
He says it with complete earnestness, eyes dark and wide, and there's this - this slow diffusion of warmth in David's chest. He wants to chalk it up to his armful of squirming baby girl, but -- it's this sudden, wondrous, overwhelming realization that he isn't alone. That he doesn't have to be.  
  
"Thanks," David says, eventually. "So - hi, I guess."  
  
Archie's smile is slow, and shy, and the warmth starts to leak into David's stomach. "Hi."  
  
David knows all about love, that fierce ache in his chest whenever he sees his baby girl laugh, or when the light catches in her eyes, or when she chews on her hair, that little voice in the back of his head that echoes _mine_.  
  
And this heat on his skin, this slow burn--this isn't it.  
  
But David thinks it might be close.


	5. iv. prince charming found that sleeping beauty was a different person awake

> "The thing is, it's - you know, it sounds glamorous, yeah, and I mean it's definitely worth it, but the reality is never as pretty as people make it out to be."

  
  
Cook spends ten minutes listening to the scritch-scratch of fabric before he opens his eyes. He stares up at his ceiling for another moment, counting his breaths in the silence, and pushes himself up on his elbows at _twelve_. The clock on his bedside table blinks _3:02_ , a warning in bright neon red. Across the room, David's rifling through his closet.  
  
"Kind of early to be up," Cook says, casually.  
  
David freezes. "I couldn't sleep," he says, eventually. He doesn't turn around.  
  
Even in the faint light from the closet, Cook can see the finger-shaped bruises along the back of David's shoulder, rich plum fading out into mauve at the edges, like a preschooler trying to color inside the lines. Cook scrubs a hand over his face. "Come back to bed."  
  
"I, um," David says. "I have an early class tomorrow. Like, seven thirty early."  
  
"Arch," Cook says, wearily.  
  
David stiffens, again, and tugs one of Cook's shirts off the rack and pulls it on instead. He takes a deep breath, then turns around, eyes dark and unreadable when he says, quietly, "I should, um - I'll just go."  
  
Cook isn't listening anymore. His shirt is too long for David, the cuffs swallowing David's hands, his fingers, and the fabric looks painfully soft. Cook's mouth goes dry, _aches_ with a sudden need, and his skin is humming as he throws the covers back and gets out of bed. He moves forward, feet silent as a predator's, till he's close enough to put his hands on the inside of the open closet doors, on either side of David's hips.  
  
David is very, very still. "Cook," he says. His skin peeks out from under Cook's shirt, a brief flash of honey-gold, and Cook smoothes his fingers over it, feels the too-quick thrum of David's pulse.  
  
"I heard you," he says to it. David's watching him when he looks up, throat working noiselessly, and Cook leans over and crushes their mouths together, pushes David back against the closet door and pins him there with the warmth of his own body.  
  
"Is this what you want?" Cook asks, lips twisting, as he jerks David's jeans off with practiced ease, shifts even closer, curves his hips so David whimpers and has to bury his face in Cook's shoulder to hide the sound. "Should I ask you to stay?"  
  
"Do you," David breathes, stubbornly, despite the way he's already straining against him, "Do you want me to?" Cook flicks his wrist, once, twice, and David arches up, shuddering, trying to find an angle--  
  
Cook swallows, hard, clenches his jaw against the treachery lying under his tongue.  
  
"Cook," David moans, again, breathless now, eyes fluttering shut as he tips his head back, fingers curling in Cook's hair, his arm, his back, his hip, his thigh.  
  
And Cook can't--  
  
" _Stay_ ," he says, fiercely, against David's neck. The word slips out like betrayal.  
  
David's skin blazes at the contact, burns Cook's lips. Cook bites his shoulder, hard enough to bruise, to leave his brand again, and doesn't have to repeat himself.  
  
  
  
Cook wakes up again, two hours later.  
  
David's still asleep, curled around him, one arm thrown carelessly over Cook's side, like he has a right to be there.  
  
Cook sweeps a thumb over the mark on David's throat, hard enough that David stirs, dislodges, murmuring sleepily. Then Cook rolls over, away, onto his side, and watches the sunrise smolder, a weak, orange glow this side of his drawn curtains, and thinks _half-covered fires burn all the brighter_.  
  
He counts David's breaths in the silence till he falls back asleep.  
  
  
  
David's already washing his dishes when Cook ambles out into the kitchen later that morning. "Oh," he says, clearly surprised.  
  
"Morning," Cook says, and takes the coffee mug David holds out to him.  
  
David's changed back into his own shirt, and Cook averts his eyes, away from the bruise at the base of his neck. "I'm, um," David says, fidgeting uncomfortably, eyeing the door. "I should probably--"  
  
"Yeah," Cook nods.  
  
David worries at his lower lip. Cook drops his gaze again, takes another long sip of coffee. "I left you oatmeal and milk," David ventures, eventually. "But I covered all the stuff in this lecture, like, last year, so I could just, if you wanted I could, um."  
  
Cook clears his throat, then, and David looks up at him, almost hopefully. The silence hangs heavy between them. "You're gonna be late," he says, finally. "You should probably--"  
  
"Oh," David says, and rubs the back of his hand over his mouth. "I - yes. Okay."  
  
The door swings shut, quietly, behind him.  
  
Cook sits there for a while longer, staring blankly at the empty corridor. His palms are cupped around his mug, stealing its heat in a suddenly chilly room. "Fucking _idiot_ ," he mutters, under his breath, " _Fuck_."  
  
He gets up, throws the milk and oatmeal out, and goes back to bed.  
  
  
  
Contrary to popular belief, Cook's good at what he does. Languages - and English, especially - have always fascinated him, and, at 31, he can easily relate to his class, all of them bright-eyed and eager and ready to take on the world.  
  
He remembers what it was like being lectured to, has learned how best to pique his students' interest; he can play with semantics, can make etymology seem relevant to the here and now, can turn syntax and morphology into more than mathematic equations.  
  
He communicates well with his pupils, too: he's young enough to be a friend, but knowledgeable enough to command respect; charismatic enough to retain attention, but modest enough that nobody finds him threatening; warm enough to encourage questions, but professional enough to maintain a distance.  
  
Professionalism, however, is not what Cook is thinking about, when he sees David in his usual seat, in the middle of the auditorium, or when he lets his gaze linger a second longer than necessary. He doesn't think about it, either, when he sees Ramiele Malubay lean over Michael Castro to tuck a note into David's shirt pocket, right next to his heart, or when Michael grins and ruffles David's hair. And it's the last thing on his mind when he sees David duck his head a little, laughing, obscuring what little proof there is that Cook is anything more to him than _professor_.  
  
There's a sour taste in Cook's mouth when he looks away, and he doesn't wait for David after class, just goes straight to his office to gather his documents, and stops for a caffeine refill in the teachers' lounge on the way to the parking lot.  
  
Johns is there, fiddling with his cell phone, and he grins when he spots Cook. "Dave Cook," he says, and waves an arm dramatically. "Where've you disappeared to, mate? Last I remember, you owe me a beer."  
  
"That was eight months ago," Cook points out, but he's coaxed into a smile despite himself. "Penny-pincher."  
  
"Man's due what a man's due," Johns says, sagely, and nudges Cook's arm. "I karaoked the hell out of Bon Jovi, and now you'll damn well buy me that drink. How's this Thursday? We're all going out for a round to celebrate Brooke's anniversary."  
  
"You'll take any excuse to drink," Cook snorts, but he catches himself hesitating. David comes over on Thursdays, and usually they have take-out or pasta and watch whatever drivel HBO puts on at 9pm. "I'll think about it," he settles for, eventually, and drives himself straight home after Johns waves him off, before locking himself in his room to grade essays that are long overdue.  
  
  
  
Cook's been working on a paper that has to do with the syntax of Germanic languages, how, despite all evidence thus far pointing to a universally recognizable system, further, more in-depth research suggests a possibility that the transference of one's understanding of one language as a basis upon which to study another language might entirely erode the ability for full comprehension of either.  
  
It's going to be a controversial paper, but Cook's starting to think that the theory holds true even within the same fucking language.  
  
He picks up, thoughtlessly, when his cell phone rings, and pushes away from his computer with a scowl. "David Cook."  
  
It's David. "Hi," he says.  
  
Cook tenses. "Hi."  
  
"It's Thursday?" David says, sounding strangely small on the other end of the line. "So I - I mean, I rented _Totally Awesome_ and _Rock Star_ , and I'm, um, now I'm at the mall picking up groceries."  
  
"Omigod," Cook hears, muffled in the background, before he can respond. "You're picking up _groceries_? You're totally, like, the cutest ever! Is that your mom?"  
  
David laughs, and Cook misses what he says next. Cook clears his throat. "You alone?" he asks.  
  
"Oh," David says. "Um, no. Ramiele wanted to get a pair of new shoes and she needed a ride over, so I offered to - oh my gosh, Michael, stop! I am totally not buying this hat! I look really stupid!"  
  
Cook grits his teeth against the headache that's starting to build behind his temples. "David," he says.  
  
"Oh my gosh, sorry!" David says, apologetically, but Cook can hear the smile in his voice. "Um, I thought I'd - should I get you milk? You never have milk, and I -- oh my gosh, _seriously_!"  
  
"No," Cook snaps.  
  
"What?"  
  
"No," Cook repeats, and pinches the bridge of his nose when there's a sudden burst of laughter from David's side. "No, don't buy the fucking milk. I'm lactose intolerant."  
  
He hangs up.  
  
David doesn't call back.  
  
" _Fuck_ ," Cook snarls. He slams his cell onto the table and jams his knuckles against his eyes, hard enough that bursts of white and purple explode beneath the pressure. He breathes, deep, then picks up the phone and dials Johns' extension. "Hey man," he says, evenly, ignoring the brittle grittiness in his eyes. "Feel like collecting that drink tonight?"  
  
  
  
Cook stumbles back into his apartment some time past two in the morning. His headache has faded to a faint throbbing at the back of his head, the giddy thrill of alcohol in its place. He's singing under his breath, feet unsteady as he makes his way into the living room.  
  
He stops short when he sees David curled up on the couch, fast asleep. The TV set is blinking blue, his DVD player sleeping as well, and Cook sees both DVD covers spread open on the coffee table.  
  
Cook swallows, hard, and feels his headache pulse back into life.  
  
He leaves David on the couch, and falls asleep in the toilet, the marble floor cool against his cheek.  
  
In the morning, David's gone. Cook spends an hour throwing up, and another wishing he was dead. There is no note in the kitchen, when he finally makes it that far, just a couple of Aspirin and a glass of water.  
  
When Cook looks inside the fridge, there's a six-pack he doesn't remember buying, and a glaring lack of milk.  
  
He slams the door shut, so hard that it rattles, and flushes the pills down the sink.  
  
  
  
David comes over again, sometime that evening. His shoulders are stiff, his mouth thin, and Cook barely gets a second's warning before David is bearing down on him, hands folded hard over Cook's shoulders, pushing him back into the couch.  
  
"What," Cook says, but the rest of it is swallowed by David's mouth, slanted over his own, hot and open and demanding, and Cook feels his stomach flip despite himself.  
  
"What?" he repeats, when they break apart to breathe, but David isn't having any of it, isn't waiting, one hand already down the front of Cook's boxers, Jesus fucking _Christ_ , and Cook moans and says, "What?" again, without meaning it.  
  
"Where were you?" David asks, against Cook's neck, before he dips his tongue into the hollow of Cook's throat. "This afternoon, where were you?"  
  
Cook can barely think, can hardly even _breathe_ , Jesus, and he lifts his hips unthinkingly because he _needs_ , oh, god, he _wants_ \-- Like a broken record, he says, "What?" again, and then David twists his wrist, and Cook's back comes right off the couch, his voice catching in his throat on some wild, mangled whimper.  
  
"Where were you?" David repeats, low and hot and dirty, and there is fire in Cook's veins, scorching white heat, and when David snaps his wrist again Cook's toes fucking _curl_ , oh _god_ \--  
  
"I - here," Cook pants, finally, digging his nails into the upholstery as David's fingers slow. "Here, right fucking _here_ , fuck, _Archie_."  
  
Something shifts in David's face, then, something Cook misses, and then David drops his head, drags his mouth over the curve of Cook's shoulder, says a quiet, "oh," like penance, like relief, and then his fingers are moving up, and--  
  
  
  
Later, after, David presses his face into Cook's neck. Inhales.  
  
Cook watches him through heavy-lidded eyes, one hand carded in his hair, stroking idly.  
  
"I think," David says, eventually. There's a pause, a lull that Cook isn't stupid enough to think will last, and he stiffens and pulls his hand back. _There's always a catch._ David raises his gaze to meet Cook's. "I think you should maybe, um, think about switching assistants."  
  
And Cook understands right away, of course he does - Michelle isn't particularly discrete about her proclivities outside of work - and he forces himself up, leans away from the heat of David's skin.  
  
David watches him, and doesn't try to move closer.  
  
"You were at my office?" Cook asks. He tries to keep his voice level.  
  
"I didn't - I wanted to bring you lunch," David says, just as quietly. He's looking at the floor now, but Cook can see the blush creeping up his neck clear as day. "And the door to your office was open, and she was - so I, I thought maybe--"  
  
It's not an unreasonable thing to assume. Michelle is Cook's type; petite, hazel eyes, darker hair, ready smile, slender wrists. Cook draws a breath. He sees David touch his own wrist, out of the corner of his eye.  
  
"Okay," is all Cook says. No reassurance, no promises. And then, "I'm going to take a shower."  
  
He turns the hot water on, all the way, and draws the shower curtain. Then he bends over the toilet and throws up again.  
  
  
  
He doesn't fire Michelle.  
  
  
  
They're having dinner in silence one day the next week when David brings it up again. "I, um, I saw Michelle today," he says, quietly. Cook puts his fork down. David stops pushing his food around his plate. "She said she was still--"  
  
"Are you keeping tabs on me now?" Cook interrupts.  
  
"What?" David says. "Cook - _no_ , I--"  
  
"She's been my assistant for two years," Cook says. He feels like he's suffocating in his own skin. "Two years, David, I'm not fucking throwing that away because you thought I was _cheating on you_ with her."  
  
David flinches, paling beneath the sudden flush of color on his cheeks. "I'm not--"  
  
"I know you've heard about Noriega," Cook adds, with a cool he doesn't feel. "The things he does to get his grades."  
  
" _What_?" David repeats, eyes wide and glossy in the light. "Don't--"  
  
Cook's lips twist. "You wouldn't fucking believe what I've heard from my colleagues, Arch - but I don't tell you to stay away from your friends, not even the ones who would probably like to take you to a club and blow you in the--"  
  
"Oh my _gosh_!" David chokes out, finally, ears burning, humiliated and upset, "Shut _up_. I'm not - I wouldn't -- just shut _up_."  
  
"Fine by me," Cook sneers, and grabs his jacket off the back of the couch before heading out of the apartment. He slams the door behind him, hard, the sound rippling in the silence, and he's halfway down the stairs before he realizes he doesn't have his wallet.  
  
Cook swears, under his breath, jams his fingers against his eyes till he stops feeling like he's going to put his fist through the wall. Then he takes the stairs two at a time, and slips soundlessly past the front door. His wallet is on the coffee table in the living room, and it's only after he picks it up that he realizes how _quiet_ it is.  
  
When he looks up, David's still in the kitchen, back to him, standing at the sink. The running water is the only sound in the room. David isn't moving, is barely even breathing, which is when Cook sees the splintered fragments of glass at David's feet.  
  
The air is so, so still. Cook starts forward, unthinkingly--  
  
David sinks into a crouch, then, starts picking up the pieces. Cook is halfway across the room when David stops moving again, just bows his head. Cook halts, jerkily. The light in the kitchen is weak, but it's not enough to hide the way David's hands are shaking, the way he's hunched into himself. _I can't do this anymore,_ his body says, in the slump of its shoulders, the hard edge to the lines of its back.  
  
Cook's fingers tighten around his wallet. He thinks about the Castros, about Danny and Alexandrea and Ramiele, about the things David's body says when he's with them.  
  
He takes a step back, feet noiseless on the carpet.  
  
He leaves his apartment the same way he came in; silent and unnoticed.  
  
  
  
Cook drags Johns to a nearby pub, downs so many shots he's dizzy with it, the last few months fading into a musty swirl of color and regret. He doesn't think about what's going to happen. Johns says, "Fucking lightweight," and laughs, matches him beer for beer and then some, and Cook's more than a little wasted when he staggers back into his apartment later that morning.  
  
David isn't gone. He's curled up on the edge of the bed, fingers clenched tightly around the covers like he's looking for warmth that he can't find. He looks blessedly young and open and _there_ , face half-lit by moonlight, and Cook's mouth aches at the sight.  
  
Cook crawls onto the mattress, one knee on either side of David, pushes clumsily at David's shirt till it slides up enough for him to press a trail of slow, hot kisses to David's stomach.  
  
David murmurs groggily, rolls over so he's spread eagle beneath Cook, blinking up at him with soft, sleep-clouded eyes. He doesn't protest when Cook paws at his shirt again, just raises his arms so Cook can pull it off. Inclines his head so Cook can kiss him.  
  
"Hi," Cook murmurs, against David's mouth.  
  
"Hi," David whispers back.  
  
There's a tight, heavy knot in Cook's stomach as he leans forward, starts working on David's jeans.  
  
David catches his wrist, then, lifts it to his mouth and presses a gentle kiss there. "Slow," he says, breath hot on Cook's skin. "Just - slow, okay?"  
  
Cook's breath catches as he nods. "Slow," he agrees, voice a low rumble, mind spinning from a heady mixture of alcohol and here and _David_. He sees the way David's stomach tenses, shudders at the way David rolls his hips.  
  
"Slow," he repeats, and closes his eyes and falls into it.  
  
  
  
Later, when David wraps his thighs around him, wraps his arms around Cook's neck, kisses his mouth, tenderly, whispers, "Cook, oh, oh, _please_ ," it feels like goodbye.  
  
  
  
They don't speak again, after. There are no calls, no messages waiting in his voicemail, no texts, no e-mails. No tweets. Nothing except what little they see of each other in class.  
  
(They run into each other approximately once, in all that time, just outside the lecture hall. "Good morning, professor," David says, quietly, and Cook's jaw tenses as he nods and replies, curtly, "Good morning."  
  
He's never felt the immenseness of the school grounds so keenly.)  
  
David never raises his hand during the lecture, and Cook doesn't hope for a glimpse of him when he (infrequently) sweeps his eyes over the auditorium.  
  
Cook pretends he doesn't notice when David stops showing up for class.  
  
  
  
It's a couple of weeks after that when Cook jerks awake in the middle of the night, breathing hard, grasping at air.  
  
He opens his mouth, the memory of his dream - nightmare - still burning the back of his eyelids--  
  
And then he remembers.  
  
Cook sits up in bed, scrubs a rough hand over his face. He finds his way to the kitchen in the dark, nearly knocking his stack of crossword puzzle books over in the process, and pours himself a glass of water.  
  
 _He finds David looking out the window above the kitchen sink, one hand wrapped around a half-empty mug. Cook watches his silhouette for a moment, the unearthly halo of moonlight cloaking him like a second skin. "Kind of early to be up," he murmurs, eventually, coming to stand behind him.  
  
David doesn't move, just leans back, fitting their bodies together. "Couldn't sleep."  
  
"Come back to bed," Cook hums, and David closes his eyes, folds his hand over Cook's. Lets Cook brush a soft kiss over his temple.  
  
"Okay," he says, and Cook leans in to taste his smile--_  
  
Cook snaps the curtains shut, then, and drops his glass in the sink. He puts his hands under the running faucet, the water so cold it stings, and presses his face into his palms like it'll take away the burn. _Some fucking nightmare,_ he thinks.  
  
It feels like he's never going to wake up.  
  
  
  
The number of students who fail the next assignment that Cook hands out is unprecedented.  
  
  
  
"You're kind of an asshole."  
  
" _Excuse_ me?" Cook raises an eyebrow as he looks up from his paperwork. He recognizes Castro immediately.  
  
Michael shuts the door behind him, arms folded over his chest. His hair catches the light, yellow on pink, and his eyes are blazing behind his glasses. "You're an asshole," he repeats. "And you can flunk me, or kick me out of your class - hell, you could probably have me suspended, but you'd still be an asshole."  
  
"Okay," Cook says, as he pushes back from his desk. "If you're here to convince me to give you a better grade--"  
  
"Fuck the grades," Michael snaps. His shoulders are tense. "I'm talking about _David_."  
  
Cook freezes, tries to quell the sudden ache in his chest. "This is an entirely inappropriate conversation to be having in my office," he settles for, after a moment. "So I suggest--"  
  
"Do you have any idea what you're doing to him?" Michael demands. His arms are spread. "He's _wrecked_ , man! It's like watching something out of a lesbian chick flick, and I won't fucking do it anymore."  
  
Cook stares, for a moment. " _I_ wrecked him? _He's_ the only--" Cook starts, then takes a breath, stops himself before he goes too far. His fists are clenched beneath the table. "If he wants to talk, he knows how to get me."  
  
"Because the talking thing's really been working out for you two," Michael agrees, mouth thin.  
  
Cook opens his mouth, unsure of what he might say; denial, anger, indignation, a combination of all three. But an idea strikes, then, and what comes out is, "Did he put you up to this?"  
  
The badly disguised hope in his voice makes him cringe.  
  
Michael's scowl twists. "Yeah," he snorts. "Yeah, he did. Because that sounds _exactly_ like something David would do, with his vindictive nature and all. Give it a rest, professor! He didn't have to _say_ anything; he wears his heart on his goddamn _sleeve_!"  
  
Cook's jaw twitches, misdirected anger flaring again, the same way it's been doing for months now. "This doesn't concern you."  
  
"Yeah," Michael says, harshly. "Try that again when he's not camped out on my couch."  
  
It's like a light goes off in Cook's head. _Ah,_ he thinks. His smile is humorless as he steeples his fingers under his chin, asks, "How long have you been in love with him?"  
  
Michael's face floods with color, and his gaze falters for a brief, brief second. "Screw you," he bites out, eventually, and yanks the door to Cook's office open. He pauses before he leaves the room, though, says over his shoulder, quietly, "You know, for a doctor, you're really fucking stupid," and then he's gone.  
  
"Yeah," Cook says, mirthlessly, to no one. "I got that memo."  
  
  
  
"Christ," Johns says, when Cook asks him out for drinks the third night that week alone. "If I'd known you were such a killjoy--"  
  
Cook chucks a couple of peanuts at his head, then, and Johns rolls his eyes and waves the bartender over. "Better keep 'em coming, mate," Cook hears him say. "I'm gonna need it more than he is."  
  
  
  
It turns out that Cook isn't as subtle as he thinks he is, because Michelle starts lingering in his office two weeks later. Bends over to pick up her pen a fraction of a second too long, leans over his desk for his signature a little closer than necessary.  
  
She has an amazing rack, an even better ass, and fuck if Cook doesn't wish he was interested. He smiles at her, wanly, says, "Thanks, Michelle," and gives her the rest of the day off.  
  
He spends the next couple of hours spinning aimlessly in his chair (thinks about the time he'd dragged David into his office and pushed him back against the bookshelves) and then throws out the rest of his papers.  
  
  
  
Cook comes home to leftover takeout and an empty apartment, week-old laundry and a bed that feels too big. He takes to sleeping on the couch, watching the fan rotate above his head. Every so often, a streak of blue peeks out at him from behind the blades, the remnants of a paint job gone awry ("I know we can't go out," David had said, "I mean, someone could see us or whatever, and then you'd be fired, but, um, so maybe we can bring the sky indoors?").  
  
They'd never finished, too caught up with life and laughter and each other.  
  
When Cook closes his eyes, he tries to breathe in the scent of fresh spring grass.  
  
It always feels like winter.  
  
  
  
"Fuck, mate," Johns says, when Cook rings him up again. It's the third time that night alone. "I'm not drunk enough to be listening to all this. Get a grip. And some sleep. It's three o'clock in the bloody morning.  
  
"And think about a shower," Johns adds, when Cook mutters incomprehensibly in response. "If you come in tomorrow in the same shirt, Carly's going to have an aneurysm." He pauses for a moment. "On second thought--"  
  
  
  
Cook is too drunk to shower without slipping in the tub, and sleep is a long time coming, so he does the next best thing.  
  
Unfortunately, doing the laundry turns out to be a bad idea, and not only because it's four in the morning.  
  
The floor in the laundry room is dry, but there's a phantom dampness under Cook's feet, the aftermath of David yanking the door to the washing machine open mid-wash during one of their arguments.  
  
They'd been fighting for months. That, and fucking, caught in a vicious routine of spin, cycle, rinse, repeat.  
  
Cook doesn't even remember what the argument was about, something trivial, like the weather, or takeout, and he'd gaped when David jerked the machine open, water spilling out and spreading over the tiled floor like a curtain being drawn.  
  
Cook had lunged for it, nearly tripping over the fabric pooling at his feet before he managed to get the door shut again.  
  
He'd looked up, then, and David had been watching for it, had thrown a pair of wet boxers in his face before storming off.  
  
The boxers are still right where Cook left them. He stares at them, for a long moment, and then starts to laugh.  
  
"Fuck," he says, as he claps a hand over his eyes. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck_."  
  
  
  
His head is pounding when he wakes up the next day, sometime after noon. He gropes for his phone, blindly, poises to make the call, gives up. He hooks the phone back in its cradle for all of five seconds before picking it up again.  
  
He isn't proud of how often he repeats the sequence of actions.  
  
  
  
One of the reasons Cook's so enamored with studying the English language is the fact that he's never been any good at vocalizing things. He's mastered poetry, prose, everything in between, and still the art of voicing something as ordinary as _it feels like you're slipping through my fingers_ completely eludes him.  
  
Speaking to David's voicemail is only marginally easier than actually speaking to him would've been.  
  
"So I - I'm pretty useless without you," he says, haltingly, after twenty seconds of listening to the sound of his own breathing. "And I know Michelle isn't the problem, but I -- so if you wanted to stop sleeping on Castro's couch, we could." Cook pauses, clears his throat. "We could maybe--"  
  
There's a quiet click on the other end of the line, and then, "Cook?"  
  
Cook lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, grips his cell a little tighter. "Hey," he says, swallows hard. "I - it's really good to hear your voice."


	6. v. the little mermaid never got to sing

> "Yes, I love him. Yes, we're very happy. Yes, we want 2.5 kids, a white picket fence and a dog named Rover. [ _Laughs_.] Who doesn't want the American dream, right?"

  
  
Everyone who knows about them knows that David is the real romantic in the relationship. He likes grand gestures, champagne and fireworks, the whole nine yards. (It's probably why his Kim-phase left Maggie - his then-publicist - in tears every time he opened his mouth.)   
  
Archie's a whole different ballgame. He appreciates the thought behind the romancing, David knows that much, but he's always been a little shy when it comes to showing affection, something David has managed to (sort of) beat out of him in the past couple of years.   
  
Still. David's not surprised when Leila - his current publicist - starts to look a little teary-eyed when he tells her about his latest plan. "David," she says, uncertainly. "Are you sure that's such a good idea? You've just gone platinum, album sales could still dip, and with your target audience--"  
  
"Lei," David says, seriously. "Have you _seen_ the stuff they're posting on the message boards? The fans already think I've slept with every member of my band. This'll barely be a blip on the radar."  
  
Leila excuses herself from the room, then, primly, and David vaguely hears the sound of sobbing explode in the hallway after she closes the door behind her.  
  
So that's phase one.  
  
  
  
David remembers the Thai restaurant they'd gone to on their first date. The exterior had been totally nondescript, but inside it was small and cozy, a worn, warm green coating the walls, like the best Thai curry, with fancy gold trimmings and authentic Thai lettering along the borders.  
  
David looked around, completely fascinated, till he caught Archie's eyes. Archie gave him a shy, sly look that said, _and this is only the beginning_ , and David found himself grinning back.  
  
The food was amazing, especially the Pad Thai, and the conversation was even better. David talked enough for the both of them, fascinated by Archie's soundless laughter and the way he kept trying to hide his grin behind his napkin.  
  
They spoke for hours, comfortable and easy, even after Archie nearly choked to death laughing at David's joke about the motel and the Barracuda. They stayed for dessert, after, and then for coconuts, which became two coconuts, a lime juice, and some odd fruit mix David had never heard of in his life. They were still arguing about the merits of each drink when their waiter came back to their table and, with a polite little cough, put their check down in front of them. David hadn't even realized how late it'd gotten.  
  
Archie insisted on getting the tab, never mind that David was the one who'd asked him out in the first place, _because I'm totally not letting you, like, whatever, show off your fifty gazillion credit cards_.  
  
David grinned, then, barely waiting for the waiter to leave before leaning across the table.   
  
Archie blinked up at him, eyes soft and warm in the candlelight, credit card still curled in one fist, and David remembers thinking _you don't get a second chance at once in a lifetime_.  
  
"So we have a couple of other options, but I'm pretty sure this is going to become our favorite restaurant," he murmured, as his hand inched closer to Archie's over the white linen cloth. "I thought you deserved a heads up."  
  
Archie looked at him, carefully, for a moment, and David held his breath. Then Archie smiled, and David's heart stuttered in his chest. And when Archie tilted his head up, just a fraction, and parted his lips, it was all the invitation David needed.  
  
David remembers how soft Archie's mouth had been, how he'd tasted like Pad Thai and spice, this wet tropical heat, how it'd felt like trading secrets, the ones Archie would never be able to say. David remembers thinking it was the best kiss he'd ever had.  
  
  
  
"You're insane," Andrew says, when David calls him to iron out the details. "He's going to go into cardiac arrest, and you're going to cry like a little girl."  
  
"That's the plan," David nods. He's pretty much beyond denial at this point.  
  
"Fuck," Andrew says, laughing. "Mom is going to _love_ this."  
  
  
  
David remembers spending an entire afternoon watching Archie tinker on the piano, under the guise of working on a new track for the next album. _Not being able to hear doesn't mean I can't play!_ he'd informed David, when they'd been dating a month. His mouth had curled, a little. _It just means I'm, um, not very good._  
  
Archie bobbed his head to the music, winced in places as if he could hear the note going sour, grinned when he fiddled with the F and G sharps, a string of notes he would never know.  
  
The silence rung, sharply, when Archie stopped, and turned around on the bench to look at David. _We should totally get a dog,_ he'd signed, absently.  
  
David put his pen down, thoughtfully. After a second, he nodded and said, "Dublin."  
  
Archie laughed, hand pressed to his mouth, like always, and David felt a sweet, sharp tug in his chest. The look Archie aimed at him said, _What?_   
  
"Dublin," David repeated, easily. "That's his name. Or - her name, I guess, depending."  
  
 _Okay,_ Archie agreed, still smiling. _But, um, probably not yet? Because that would sort of be like having children and we're not even, um--_  
  
David broke into a grin himself. "Are you saying you want my babies, Archuleta?"   
  
_Cook!_ Archie protested. He was blushing again, skin hot where his arm was tucked up against David's. _I just mean, like, when we're ready, or whatever._  
  
David's smile softened. "Yeah," he nodded. "When we're ready."   
  
Archie went back to tapping keys on the piano, and after a second, David joined in. Archie smiled down at their hands and mouthed, _Dublin_ , to himself, like he was testing the weight of it on his tongue. David closed his eyes, and pretended he could hear it.  
  
When he opened his eyes again, Archie was looking at him, head tipped to the side. _Come back to me,_ he mouthed, one hand cupped around the other, holding on to the last word like a glory note, and David remembers, as he'd folded in half and _laughed_ , remembers feeling like he could take on the world.   
  
  
  
Phase two of David's ingenious plan involves roping the other three Horsemen (and Carly) into helping him carry it out.  
  
"You want to do _what_?" Carly demands.   
  
"More importantly, you want to do what _where_?" Luke points out.  
  
David snorts. "Yeah, thanks, guys, I'm really feeling the support here."   
  
Yeager and Carly exchange looks. "Dave, man, are you sure?" Yeager asks. "I mean, you know what you're asking is--"   
  
David rolls his eyes with a sigh. "Look, guys. If I was looking to be judged, I'd go back for another season of Idol. Are you going to help me or not?"  
  
It takes a second of silent, telepathic conversation between them - Carly raising an eyebrow alone could be any of thirteen different messages, and David's willing to bet she uses the 'we should not be encouraging him' variation of it more than once - but then Michael finally snorts and shakes his head. "David fucking Cook. Some mornings I wake up wondering if this is the day I'll see you turn into an actual woman."   
  
Carly smacks him as David rolls his eyes, and Michael grins through his wince. "Yeah, Jesus, 'course we'll help. What do you want us to do?"  
  
  
  
Amidst the three-hundred strong crowd, their well-wishes, the booze, the strippers (Jesus fucking _Christ_ , Michael had definitely had a hand in planning the party) and the honest-to-god confetti that had been raining down from the ceiling, David remembers, clearly, wondering where Archie had disappeared to.  
  
He'd found him a couple of hours later, hiding out in the makeshift studio in the basement, tinkering on the piano. Archie startled a little when David sat beside him, and David nudged him in the side. "Now you know how I felt," he said, with a grin - which was a total understatement, because the aftershock of three hundred voices yelling, "Surprise, happy birthday!" and then being assaulted with a battery of hugs was going to take some recovery time - and nipped at Archie's lower lip when Archie leaned in to kiss him.  
  
"Why aren't you up there with your guests?" David asked, as Archie pulled back and ran his fingers gently over the piano keys again.  
  
 _Ran out of paper,_ Archie admitted, with a little laugh. _And, um, I got tired of typing texts into my phone._  
  
David snorted and shook his head. Typical.  
  
 _Also, I know you said you didn't want, like, a party or whatever,_ Archie added, after a beat. _But then your mom texted me and told me that you say that, like, every year, and you're totally lying, so, um - happy birthday?_  
  
"Best birthday party I've had," David said, squeezing Archie's hand, briefly. "Especially since it's the first time I've had gay strippers pole-dancing in my home."  
  
 _Oh my gosh,_ Archie groaned. _I totally should've let your mom handle the entertainment._  
  
David started laughing, then, and murmured, "You're fucking amazing," as he reached for Archie and reeled him in.  
  
 _Um, so,_ Archie signed, when they broke apart, his breaths coming erratic and shallow. _I guess that means you really liked it?_   
  
David burst out laughing all over again.  
  
  
  
Now, David's plan is flawless - or as close to flawless as it can possibly be - but he hits a bit of a snag at phase three. It involves rounding up the rest of the Season 7 Idols, which turns out to be much trickier than David'd thought it would be. He talks to Brooke on occasion, and Chikezie, texts Asia'h from time to time, and he gets the occasional email from Jason, but getting in contact with his other ex-competitors is no easy task, considering the amount of time that's gone by. He almost throws in the towel after Syesha's manager hangs up on him the third time in a row, because apparently he knows how David Cook sounds better than David does, and David's impersonation (he's either not growly enough or funny enough or he doesn't _speak in melody_ , fuck) isn't going to get him anywhere.   
  
Except, fuck, of course David's not throwing in the towel. Archie's completely in love with the show, even the judges, because of _course_ he couldn't be infatuated with some _other_ TV show that David has absolutely no affiliation with, of course not--   
  
So. He's almost set now, and on the way home he gets Jeff on the phone so they can talk details, and Jeff says he'll get the word out to the rest of the Archuletas, so, by David's calculations, the only person still in the dark is Archie, which pretty much means that everything is going according to plan.   
  
It's stupid, because no one's actually going to respond, but David catches himself calling, "Honey, I'm home!" as he wipes his feet off on the welcome mat anyway.  
  
Archie comes barreling into him a second later, obviously panicked. His fingers are flying, too fast for David to make out, eyes wild, mouth tripping over words that have no sound.  
  
"Arch," David says, clapping his hands over Archie's shoulders. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! David, _fuck_ , I can't keep up, you're gonna have to slow down."  
  
Archie repeats himself, clearly agitated, but all David catches is something about water and pie. Possibly ice cream. Archie rolls his eyes, and tugs David towards the kitchen, which is when David realizes that there's smoke leaking out from under the kitchen door. "Holy shit," he breathes.  
  
The kitchen is a _mess_. There's cutlery everywhere, pots and pans upturned, dishes in complete disarray. The oven door is open, the burned ruins of - what David assumes used to be - a pie, sitting meekly on the cooling rack. There are three plates on the kitchen counter, covered by a dry, checkered dishtowel, and David almost slips when he steps inside because, oh, yeah, _the sprinkler is going_.   
  
Archie grabs the broom from beside the kitchen door and thrusts it at David. He looks miserable. _I, um, I might have broken the alarm?_ he signs, calmer now that he's not alone in assessing the damage. _But then the water was being all, whatever, stubborn, and it wouldn't stop._   
  
David stares for a second at the broom in his hand.   
  
_And I, um, I maybe climbed up the kitchen counter to hit the smoke alarm,_ Archie adds, belatedly. _Sorry?_  
  
David takes a second, then, to actually look Archie over. He has a smudge of flour on his cheek, and his 'i ♥ lettuce' apron is hanging crookedly off one shoulder. David's mouth twitches. The sprinkler's still going strong.  
  
Archie's eyes widen as he takes a step closer to David. _Oh my gosh, don't even think about--_  
  
Which is when he slips, flails, and crashes into David, hard. David stumbles a little, regains his balance when he hits the kitchen counter, and then nearly loses it again from laughing so hard. Archie tries, and fails, to look outraged, both arms wound around David's neck, color blossoming bright on his cheeks.  
  
Carefully, Archie untangles himself from David, and waits for David to stop wheezing before he signs, _I didn't hear the timer,_ and ducks his head, sort of embarrassedly.  
  
David catches himself on the brink, and barely manages to swallow another laugh. "Fuck," he says, and, when Archie won't quite look at him, his mouth, signs back, _Arch, Jesus, I can hear it and I would've burned the damn thing anyway._  
  
When Archie finally raises his eyes, he looks like he might be fighting a smile. _True._  
  
David does grin, then. "Though I wouldn't have broken the smoke detector, so there is that."  
  
 _Oh my gosh,_ Archie sighs, and tilts his face up to the ceiling. They're both wet already, and Archie's shirt is clinging to his skin, his hair plastered to his forehead, and, when he looks back at David, there are beads of water caught in his eyelashes, and on his cheek.   
  
"Archie," David says, unsurprised when his voice comes out rough. He tugs Archie close again, so they're standing toe-to-toe, and kisses him, right there, thumb sweeping at the droplets of water running down the line of Archie's neck.  
  
 _Oh my gosh,_ Archie repeats, pushing his hair back as he blinks more moisture out of his eyes. _Cook! Stop distracting me!_  
  
David grins, unrepentant, and runs the pad of his finger over the hollow of Archie's throat, then his mouth, and feels a thrill vault down his spine when Archie shivers and leans closer.  
  
He looks around the kitchen, at what he's built here - what _they've_ built here, all of it, and thinks, smiling, _this is my life_.   
  
"Okay," David says. "Let's get this place cleaned up."  
  
  
  
David remembers how it'd been when Archie had started staying over. It'd taken some adjusting to, and the constant shared space resulted in a couple of heated arguments (which were always stupid, because David would raise his voice, and then have to stop himself, because _what was the point?_ ) which almost always ended up with Archie in the studio, hammering away at the piano like a boxer in the ring.   
  
But they'd always end up in bed together, at some point, limbs tangled, David listening to the rise and fall of their quiet breathing in the dark.  
  
One night, after a spectacularly stupid fight, Archie had sat up a little, signed, _I think you should sing to me._ Belatedly, he added, _Um, please?_   
  
David raised an eyebrow. "But you can't--" he begun.  
  
Archie pressed his ear pointedly to David's chest. _Yes, I can._   
  
David hesitated a moment, and then nodded and said, "okay," and felt Archie's smile against his skin. He launched into an old favorite, then, one of the lesser-known Collective Soul songs. "Feels like sweet sixteen, all sugar and nicotine," he hummed, low and sweet, "It feels like ready go, I'm full throttle while the fluids flow."   
  
Archie pressed a kiss to the center of David's palm as he listened, then pushed David's fingers close over it, one by one.  
  
"I said it feels like, it feels like," David sang, "Feels all right."   
  
  
  
Leila takes one last stab at convincing him that what he wants to do is "kind of crazy, Dave, you know? I mean, you sure you can't wait a couple of years? Maybe when you turn 45?"  
  
To which David responds with a shake of his head, saying, "Waiting's overrated."  
  
"Fine," Leila sighs. "The venue is totally yours. Madison Square Garden couldn't be more thrilled to have you, and I've already sent out a notice to the press. We've been promised live TV coverage by three major networks, and I have a couple of radio shows lined up, it's all in your inbox, so if there's a show you don't want to do, we'd better take care of that. Oh, and we'll have to do a shoot for promo, and Michelle's handling the logistics for that and for tickets, but that's old hat by now."  
  
David raises an eyebrow, and Leila waves a hand at him. "Fine, fine, and Terry's going to set up everything you need for after the concert. As discretely as possible. I had to make people sign confidentiality contracts, Dave. God."  
  
"So we're set?" David asks.  
  
"Did you hear a _word_ of - ugh, whatever, yes, we're set." Leila shakes her head. "I deserve a raise."  
  
"You're too good for me," David agrees, easily.   
  
Leila looks him over, once, then says, "Just so you know, this is career suicide, so the only reason I'm helping you do this, aside from not wanting to have to explain why I was fired by David fucking Cook, is the fact that you give awesome health benefits." She pauses, then adds, grudgingly, "And sometimes you're even a halfway decent human being."  
  
"Thanks," David says, with a laugh. "I appreciate it."  
  
  
  
The question they get the most from friends is probably, "Seriously, how did you two meet?"   
  
Archie's response is always a grin and _funny story_ , and each time, David groans and buries his face in his hands like it might make the whole ordeal any less painful.  
  
They'd met at a meet and greet. A _meet and greet_ , of all things, and Archie hadn't even been a fan.  
  
David had been exhausted, running on caffeine and adrenaline after a long day of promo and interviews, and he was about to ask for another latte when Archie came up to the table, beaming, and David caught himself smiling back. Archie held out a placard that read: _Hi David, I'm David. But you can call me Archie, haha. My sister Jazzy was supposed to be here today, but she's sick, so I guess I'm standing in. :) I'm sure I would totally love your music if I listened to it, though! Probably. Haha._  
  
It took a couple of seconds for David to stop laughing. "A little under the weather yourself?" he asked, when he could finally breathe again, and grinned when Archie sort of shrugged and smiled. "That sucks." He took the album liner from Archie, saying, "To Jazzy, right?"  
  
Archie nodded, and David signed the album and handed it back to him. On some strange compulsion, he added, before Archie could walk away, "Maybe the show will change your mind. About my music?"  
  
Archie laughed, soundlessly, and he shrugged again. Then he mouthed, _good luck!_ and was herded offstage.   
  
(It wasn't until later, after the show, when David saw him again, signing, _sorry, sorry, sorry!_ at one of the other patrons, that he'd realized, had approached Archie and signed, _did you ring for a translator?_   
  
Archie had stared up at him for a second, clearly surprised, and David had added, without knowing why, _my brother had brain cancer; we had to pick it up pretty quick_.  
  
It had taken less than an hour of conversation for David to say, "So I was thinking we should get together for dinner some time," and Archie had looked straight at him, with something almost like wonderment, before signing, slowly, _do you like Thai?_ )  
  
  
  
 _You're going to sound totally amazing_ , Archie signs, right before David's supposed to go on, and David takes a second to catch his breath, to marvel at him, at all of this. Outside, he can hear the crowd cheering, and it's pretty fucking amazing, to know that they're all there to see him, that they're all going to be there to witness this.  
  
The stage manager waves for him to get onstage, and Archie backs up a couple of steps. Something flutters in David's stomach, and he reaches for Archie's hand, tugs him close again. "I love you," he says, quietly, and kisses him, and Archie's flushed and smiling when David pulls away and lets himself get herded out onto the stage.  
  
The audience is a blinding wall of noise and flashing lights, and the thrill of it makes David grin, makes his fingers itch. "Give it up, Madison Square Garden!" he says, into the mic. The response is _insane_. "How're y'all feeling tonight?"  
  
Another burst of sound.   
  
"Thanks for coming out tonight, you guys. We have a great show lined up for you. Y'all know the drill, right?" David asks, and laughs when the crowd roars their approval. Then he quirks an eyebrow. "Or do you?"  
  
The band kicks off with the opening chords to _Breathe Deep_ right as David finishes the question, and David fucking nails it before he even opens his mouth to sing. The audience is going _crazy_. There's something in crackling in the air here, and it pulses like a heartbeat through the crowd, the band.  
  
David breezes through the rest of the set: _Reverberate_ , _Sycophant_ , _This Sweet Morning_ , then segues into a couple of songs from his debut album, _Life on the Moon_ , _Avalanche_ , _Come Back to Me_ , and then a Collective Soul cover, and even a few tracks off his pre-idol album.   
  
The crowd eats it up, every moment of it, and on his last glory note, David presses his hand to his chest, feels his heart pounding to the beat of Kyle's drums, and then he says, "You guys have been amazing, thank you," and the crowd gasps, this ripple of sound, when the rest of the Idols start coming out onstage.   
  
"We've got one last song on the menu tonight," David says, then, and the energy _triples_. "Our special of the day." His blood is roaring in his ears as Michael slings an arm around his neck, grinning, and then Ramiele joins them, on his other side, and the rest of the idols are right there with her, and David tilts his head back, just enough to see the complete awe on Archie's face, and signs, with the hand not holding onto the mic, _this is for you_.  
  
Then Kyle says, "One, two, three, four!" and breaks out into _Dance Like There's No Tomorrow_. The audience goes absolutely _batshit_ , and David ends up laughing so hard he completely misses his cue. For three minutes, he gets to relive Idol all over again, gets to stand in Madison fucking Square and sing his heart out with some of the most talented people he's ever going to meet. He catches glimpses of Archie in between, watching them with wide, awed eyes, lips parted, cheeks stained with color, and David feels himself shaking with it, with what he's about to do.  
  
"Give it up for the American Idols, you guys!" he says, when it's over, and applauds into the mic as his friends take a bow.   
  
"David Cook, everybody!" Amanda announces, in turn, and then Brooke smiles at him, comfortingly, and Michael mutters, "Break a leg," and elbows him in the side before they all file off backstage.  
  
David's heart is in his throat as he turns back to the crowd and raises a hand to get their attention. "If you guys'll just bear with me for five more minutes," he says. There's a murmur of confusion from the crowd when he adds, "Can we get David Archuleta out here?"   
  
He cuts his gaze over to the wings just in time to see Carly nudging Archie forward, out onto the stage. Archie looks completely bewildered, blinking at the sudden onslaught of flashing lights, and his mouth tilts up, questioningly, when he catches David's eyes. _What's going on?_ he signs.  
  
David just grins, feels his skin tingle with nerves and anticipation when he says, "Hit it, Terry!"   
  
All the lights go out. For a second, the stage is completely dark. And then this fucking _amazing_ string of blue lights flickers into life behind the band: _Will you get a dog with me?_  
  
The script curls from one end of the stage to the other, big enough to be read from Utah, probably, but David barely even hears the crowd's reaction, his entire world condensed to this place, this _moment_. Archie's staring up at the message, unmoving, unblinking, and even without the spotlight, David can see that he's shaking. He's actually _shaking_ , and David feels his palms start to sweat.  
  
He can see the exact moment Archie realizes that Jeff and Lupe are there, that his siblings are in the wings, that _David's_ family is there, too, hidden by the screens. Archie wrenches himself from the message, then, from all of it, and turns to David, hands flailing helplessly.  
  
David's heart is like a sledgehammer against his ribs, going so fast, so hard, that he can barely breathe. He takes a shaky step forward, anyway, away from the mic, then another. _I know we weren't ready the last time we talked about this,_ he signs, clumsily. _But it's been a while now, and I know more about you than I thought I'd ever know about anyone.  
  
Cook,_ Archie signs back, and then stops, covers his mouth with his hand instead.  
  
 _I know what you look like when you wake up in the morning,_ David continues, stronger now, and his next step forward is more confident. _I know you love watching musicals. I know you'd make an amazing pianist. I know you think Bubbles should be your favorite Powerpuff Girl, but you like Buttercup more. I know that you have six different smiles. I know how terrible you are at crossword puzzles. I know I'll never be half the cook that you are, despite my namesake._  
  
Archie laughs a little, at that, the light catching in his hair, his smile, and David feels his eyes start to burn.  
  
 _I know how it feels when you listen to me sing, right here,_ David adds, pressing his palm to his chest, over his heart. _And I know nothing else will ever feel the same way._  
  
David pauses, then, drops his head and tries to catch his breath, and, when that doesn't work, shoves the heels of his palms against his eyes, and struggles to ride it out.   
  
He feels Archie's hand on his shoulder, after a second, and when he lifts his head, Archie's looking up at him, eyes wet, and David thinks, _I love you,_ and gets down on one knee.  
  
Andy starts to wolf-whistle.  
  
 _Oh my--_ Archie begins.  
  
"Archie," David interrupts, and he's fucking terrified, cheeks damp, heart going so fast he's pretty sure it's about to stop, beating so loud everyone in the crowd must be able to hear it, but he's saying it anyway, one of Archie's hands curled in his own, "David."  
  
Archie goes completely still. He's looking at David, carefully, like the night of their first date, except David recognizes the emotion now, this jumble of affection and yearning and fear.   
  
And then Neal comes up to him, holding the mic, and David takes a deep breath, doesn't even wave Neal away, and says, "Will you spend the rest of your life raising Dublin with me?"  
  
There's a sudden roar from the crowd, but David barely even notices. Archie's just watching him, silently, and David feels his stomach clench--   
  
_Yes,_ Archie signs.   
  
David breaks into a small, relieved laugh, and then Archie flies at him, wraps his arms around David's neck, nodding the rest of his answer into David's shoulder, _yes, yes, yes_.  
  
"Kiss already!" Joey yells, and David looks over, shakily, and says, "Wouldn't want to disappoint the band," and then his hands are in Archie's hair, and his shirt, and Archie's mouth opens easily under his own, and the applause and the jeering fades into this blend of noise in the background as David thinks, _this is the rest of my life._  
  
"We might need to take a raincheck on the kids and the white picket fence, though," he murmurs, when they pull away.   
  
Archie buries his face in David's shoulder, again, laughing, and David counts the vibrations, grinning himself.   
  
It's the best thing he's heard all night.


	7. epilogue: and they lived happily ever after

Ten minutes before the interview concludes, David is interrupted by a phone call. In a move that should be unprofessional but is instead strangely endearing, he promises me ten additional minutes of his time before excusing himself to take the call.  
  
He's smiling when he returns, and apologizes for holding us up.  
  
"Dinner plans?" I ask, trying to sound casual.  
  
I clearly fail, because David refuses to elaborate further, apart from shooting me a sly grin and saying, "Something like that."  
  
We finish the interview amicably. David has plenty of anecdotes to share from the time he's spent on tour, and with his family. He remains notoriously tight-lipped about his relationship, only saying, "He's great. Some days I wish we were out, so we could do things together, like see a movie, or go out for dinner. But it's, uh, it's a trade-off, I guess, and so far we've had a really good run."   
  
All too soon, my time is up.  
  
Judging from the fact that David's first priority, once he's thanked me, is to sneak into the men's room with his cell phone, I'm going to say that "a really good run" is probably a vast understatement.  
  
I may not know who the lucky leading man is, but I'm pretty sure this romance ends with castles, horses and riding off into the sunset.


End file.
